In the fall, when the leaves are orange and red,

I'm not jumping in them, I'm writing instead

I do jump in leaves, though: I do care,

But then I write about the leaves in my hair.

The Jack-O-Lanterns outside my house,

Give a warm glow that gets me roused

So I go inside, and start to write,

and I have a new poem ready by Halloween night.

The Thanksgiving table, decked out in red,

is full of stuffing, turkey and bread

The aroma fills me as I write,

and then I stop to take a bite!

Soon, the snow will start to appear,

and the leaves will be gone for another year.

I could write, but instead I pick

to wait by the chimney for Old Saint Nick!