by Robert Huntington (1958-)
The autumn leaves sparkle, every hue
Glistening, orange, gold and scarlet red;
What would I say? “They’re wrinkled, dry and dead”
If I looked up without thinking of you.
Majestic storm clouds thrill while peeking through
Behind them brilliant flaming flecks appear
As the sun sets. “Oppressive, dark and drear”
I’d call it if I didn’t think of you.