When the maples turn golden and the white oak's leaves grow brown,
And the sumach forms a scarlet sash to bind the thicket's gown,
When the sere grass gleams and sparkles with the frost and the blackbirds fly
In an ever growing conclave, it's the time for pumpkin pie.
The hickory nuts are falling and the squirrels in the trees
Merit well the reputation of the canny honeybees,
And the crows with imprecations flaunt the farmer who essays
To usurp their right and title to the rustling fields of maze.
There is an exhilaration in the nipping autumn air
With its wondrous store of magic which we are free to share,
That accents the joy of living and is timed exactly right
For its appreciation—and a healthy appetite.
My nostrils sense a fragrance no perfumer can impart
To his repertoire of sweetness through his skill and subtle art,
So I contemplate goodness of sunshine, earth and sky
In a composite masterpiece—delicious pumpkin pie.