Season-Senses

By G. E. Shuman

Season changes come around,
Through sights and tastes and whispered sounds.
And scents that spark remembered days-
That touch the heart, in warming ways.

See fresh-grown produce; firm potatoes,
Bulging beats, bright red tomatoes,
Passing on. Their season’s done.
Now pumpkins… big as dusk-hued suns.

Crunch tart apples while we can,
Until they’re gone. It’s God’s own plan.
He tucks the North in, by His might,
With crisp-piled leaves… for winter’s night.

“Quack!” A duck-wedge wings on by,
On whispering winds which softly cry,
In warning of what is to be:
“Soon blizzard blasts will come to thee.”

Inhale the changing scents of fall;
Those apple bushels in the hall.
Outside, a wind-born, smoky flair
Rides fresh, crisp, fragrant, frosty air.

Now frigid fingers feel the bite
Of early morn, and darkening night.
And faces wince, with stinging blow,
From falling leaves and flying snow.

Come taste the cinnamon-apple pie,
And watch the crackling embers fly.
The scents are baking’s airy lace.
You sleep, while wood-fire warms your face.