OCTOBER

Where are you going, my children?

Down autumn's leaf-strewn lanes

To find Jack Frost who tiptoed by

And touched our windowpanes.

I see storm windows that must be hung,

You see frost tracings in early sun.

I see the leaves to be raked in a mound,

You see tumbling mats on the ground.

Where are you going, my children?

Just down the road a way

To see the tree where the owl sits

And a field where rabbits play.

I see small boots to be marked and mated,

You see a world newly decorated.

Oh, let me come with you down that land

And see October as a child again.

Barbara Burrow