Last Echoes

Last echoes of spring as thunder rolls overhead
Mowers make their final pass under summer's unrelenting sun.
Fields, soon burnt and brittle, flowers no more until
Cool breezes bring autumn rain settling the dust, quenching
The earth's awesome need. Leaves fly, swirl and dance.
Golden-orange globes appear, last echoes of my garden.
Bare, trembling tree limbs shake off their frosted coat.
The North wind rises higher, faster, colder, screaming through the eaves.
Nightfall winds subside. Snow and ice mix descends.
Tomorrow a winter wonderland, it's a shame no hill for sleds.
Clock strikes, bells tool for the last echoes of an old year.