Occasionally one sees some ice,
At the edges of a puddle;
Or sees some birds caught in mid-flight,
On high branches in a huddle.
There's steam in wispy columns,
Ascending from the ground;
Heavy dew on late fall flowers,
Weighing little petals down.
Not a whisper of a cloud,
In that bright October sky;
Bullfrogs croak down by the creek,
And squirrels scoot and hide.
Shades raised full on kitchen windows,
Condensation on their panes;
It was fun to rub a peek hole,
To watch dancing weather vanes.
Plaid, wool shirts, two sizes big,
Felt toasty to the shoulders;
My father raked the fallen leaves,
As he watched for buried boulders.
As a kid, I used to run and jump,
Into Dad's freshly piled stacks;
Then he'd chase me 'round the yard,
Our dog barking at his back.
And when exhausted, I would drop,
Dad would pick me up and smile;
He'd give me good October hugs,
Then toss me back into the pile.
The climax came late afternoons,
Just before evening settled in;
Against his shoe, Dad struck a match,
And the bonfires would begin.
If perfume manufacturers,
Could bottle up that scent,
Of October leaves a-burning,
They would become most opulent.
For there's not a comparable aroma,
On the face of this whole earth,
That stirs up such warm feelings,
And such memories filled with mirth.
Fall's the time for recollection,
Like no other time of year;
It's kind of like a twilight,
Before winter's night is here.
October is the perfect month,
To trigger good, old thoughts;
Let those rich, October smells,
Take one back to Camelot!