Fingers of Fall

The green of the grass that lies at your feet,
The red of the fireweed rising from deep,
The gold of the leaves as wind in trees sway,
The beginnings of fall have been sighted this day.

The dust made of white will soon have its time,
As the fingers of fall find mountains to climb;
White caps on the peaks descend soon to greet
The ascension of autumn, their colors to meet.