fall - a poem

nothing to sing of,
no new stanza of song
comes to mind at the end of the day
no whipporwhil whistles a tune

and the day has become shorter
as fall is coming into season
the sun to return to it's sea
beneath the southern globe

where the tree once blazed in light
it now casts a longer shadow
and the northern exposure
of moss has become wet with dew

and the night lists quietly
the cicada song has ceased
nothing but locust shells
dot the tree trunk with it's limbs

and finally as the moon arcs above
i see the waxing cresent announce gain
and wonder at the ancient light
that can light the newest path