Autumn comes soft to Virginia hills,
Not all at once, but in whispered chills—
A golden hush on Blue Ridge air,
A crimson prayer in forests bare.
The maples flare like lantern light,
Set gently against the lengthening night;
Oak leaves bronze in the slanting sun,
Their summer stories nearly done.
Along the quiet Shenandoah's bend,
Where fence posts lean and pastures end,
Pumpkins glow in amber rows,
And cider warms as twilight grows.
Cornfields rattle dry and low,
Secrets only scarecrows know;
Bootsteps stir the country lanes
Perfumed with woodsmoke, earth, and rains.
Old barns wear their weathered red
Like crowns upon the harvest spread;
Porch swings creak in even time
With cricket hymn and church bell chime.
In Charlottesville's October light,
Brick and ivy burn more bright;
Dogwoods blush and tulips sleep
Beneath the soil's cool, patient keep.
Sky turns silver, sharp and wide,
Geese stitch south in arrowed stride;
Morning frost on meadow glass
Waits for sun to let it pass.
And every ridge from far to near
Holds the turning of the year—
A painted breath, a slow release,
A borrowed blaze before the peace.
O Virginia, dressed in flame,
No two autumns are the same;
Yet each one leaves the heart aware
Of how much beauty lingers there. 🍁
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem