The road up Elmore Mountain a shower
of flares, one burst of fireworks outdoing
the next, the sugar maple reddest of all,
its work long finished, time now for show
before the fall.

The path layered with russet, burnt
orange, scarlet, gold. Look, we’re
walking on jewels. In the mirror
of the inn at Stowe pale cheeks
flame from the cold.

Harvest over, winter still to come.
Edges lined in dark, bright
leaves swirl underfoot,
flutter in the brisk air, colors
half a rainbow, half a covenant.

© by Mary Lou Taylor.
Used with the author’s permission.