This New England Season Poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar

The purple and orange in the sunsetting sky.
The smell of wood burning...
Delivering whists of kissed smoked drifts,
From chimneys of homes nearby!
And it doesn't really seem
Autumn is closing in with Fall!
Afterall,
Quick has come September...
I did not hear Summer shout, 'Last call! '

The Harvest Moon will come soon,
With the joy of apple picking...
From trees whose leaves
Will color bright in fitting hues.
And swift breezes will begin,
To dropp in temperature to subdue!
As Indian Summer finally comes...
Splashing this New England season,
I wish was witnessed by everyone.