The crisp Autumn air,
Danced across my skin with velveteen flair,
Angry clouds rustled the pastel sky,
As my mind wandered to times gone by.
I thought of autumn evenings just like this,
Those who marveled at them in bucolic bliss,
I thought, why any would want to cause it to go amiss?
Only one word shot into my mind,
almighty progress with her iron fist,
Crushing all that is gentle, charming, and good,
Churning bucolic farms,
With fields, lakes, and wood,
To concrete, steel, and soot.
Then I looked out over the fields sublime,
And thought there must be something divine,
That crafted this beauty before all time.
Going on my way,
I could swear I heard the trees say,
That there is the breath in every sway.