A rich autums day

It looks too fake, the autumn leaves,

The dancing wind, and the thieves up in the trees.

A bird song soothes the child of its cries, a lullaby of orange, red, and yellow and the mean magpies,

For an autumn day is fake by the eyes of the people below the skies.

The grass below silky and wet, the great painter's palette with a nice baguette and a glass of wine

The bight moonshine only adds to this goldmine of a world we seem to forget.

Just by seasons, we are rich,

for multiple reasons

None of which can be stolen, all of which can be destroyed.

As we watch the paints of an artist draw the tress ever so swollen,

A sweet, sweet marigold upon a field of green gold for a rich autumn's day has so much to uphold