Sunrise in the fall
Is a beautiful thing to see.
The blue sky rises tall
With the promise of all that is to be.
The air is crisp and cool
The colors are vibrant and bright.
The sun glimmers as a jewel
It is wonderous sight.
The fall is a time of transition.
We move from the heat of summer
To a colder air condition
And a change of pace like a little drummer.
The fall is to me the very best season
I like it the most, for no special reason.
Beneath the beacon of the yellow sign,
The hungry gather from the midnight street;
Where golden waffles press in iron lines,
And butter melts upon the rising heat.
Across the counter, skilled and practiced hands
Turn simple hashbrowns on the seasoned steel;
All scattered, smothered, covered on demand,
With friendly smiles to crown a country meal.
The hour never matters when they call,
For through the dark the diner doors stay wide;
A steady refuge welcoming to all,
Where honest comfort never is denied.
More than a stop along the weary way: Good food that greets the night and starts the day.
On paved domains or where the pavement ends,
Through heavy mire the muddy wheels roll free;
No driver cares what grime the tire contends,
They wash the badge and wear the dirt with glee.
Though highways carry drivers through the week,
The hidden trails are ready for the test;
Across the stubborn stump and rushing creek,
The spinning tires answer each request.
With open roof beneath the mountain sun,
It roams the rugged land without a bound;
Both bold and stylish till the work is done,
A trusted partner on the roughest ground.
There is but one true Jeep to lead the way:
For legends are not born—they’re made today.
A simple plastic world begins with play,
Where tiny corners fit with steady snap;
We build our towers through the sunny day,
And when the castle stands, we smile and clap.
From little streets to castles reaching wide,
The molded pieces answer every choice;
No false horizon forces us aside,
In every simple shape we find rejoice.
Yet not to childhood is the spark confined,
For wild ideas stir within the chest;
The structured bricks ignite a sharper mind,
And put our bold ambitions to the test.
From youth to age, the endless wonders grow:
There is no bound to what the hands bestow.
I admit the yardwork never suited my hand;
Mowing the lawn is about all the labor I muster.
I resent the sharp edge of the trimmer and shears,
So I planted the saplings together, a solitary cluster.
I delayed the cutting as long as the seasons allowed,
Watching the green shoots tangle, cross borders, and mingle.
Some reached far above me, casting a shadowy wall,
Until intricate branches knit tight, woven and single.
The longer I wait, the more their living combines,
Growing taller and wider, a dense, undisciplined frame.
They interlace limbs in the quiet, tangled and wild,
Leaving no path to follow, no simple direction to name.
At last the cold steel comes out with a dreaded report,
As I step to the thicket and measure the boundary line—
Attempting to salvage the yard with a hesitant cut,
Reclaiming the borders from nature’s unruly design.
