From the old rail fence
there's a harvest moon,
shining on fields where leaves are strewn.
These chilly nights can fall with rain
and frost can fill the window pane.
With Cherry laurels or migrating flocks
or pumpkin spice, or adjusting clocks,
or the crows - the crows - that fill the sky
I'm aware this season soon will die.
I've asked the scarecrow,
he certainly knows
that all these things will come and go.
So too for each of human heart -
like falling leaves, we too will part.