Remember how we walked through the field on Thanksgiving afternoon?
The old house flaunts a brilliant cloak until changing into a mantle of snow.
We watch the last boxcar rumble down the tracks in autumn’s last glow.
What are the trees telling us from the middle of the Ohio bean field?
The cottage settles into stillness after summer laughter.
Inside the arbor’s shade, we look skyward to catch the sun.
We raise our gaze to the rising moon above the chapel’s spire.