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The Air Grows Cold
Randal A. Burd, Jr.


The air grows cold. The leaves, once green,
Turn yellow, orange, and gold between
Brief moments spent outdoors. The call
Of birds of prey make forests crawl
With anxious creatures seldom seen.

Close by, as in some magazine,
A brook completes the perfect scene.
As humid summer yields to fall,
The air grows cold.

Soon winter comes: first Halloween,
Then heaters run on kerosene,
A knitted scarf and hat, a shawl,
But well before the snow and all,
The air grows cold.

This poem first appeared in Nine Muses Poetry.
Used here with permission.


Randal A. Burd, Jr. teaches adult education classes and works with at-risk youth at a residential treatment facility in rural Missouri. He has a Master's Degree in English Curriculum & Instruction from the University of Missouri and his work has been published in a variety of publications. A married father of two, Randal is editor of the online literary magazine Sparks of Calliope. Learn more about him at



Post New Comment:
Ah yes, even in California, the air grows cold.
Posted 10/13/2021 11:29 AM
The ground is white with snow here in Wyoming this morning. The air grows cold.
Posted 10/13/2021 09:03 AM
Sharon Waller Knutson:
This poem was delightful and very relatable. I live in Arizona but I am in Idaho now and we had six inches of snow on the weekend and the leaves turned and fell on top of the snow. Usually it snows on Halloween here.
Posted 10/13/2021 08:55 AM
Gilbert Allen:
An elegant convergence of sound and sense.
Posted 10/13/2021 08:45 AM
A great example of rondeau.
Posted 10/13/2021 06:24 AM

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