Do not I owe some tithe of poems
to be sung and celebrated this day?
Am I not responsible for some joy
some expression, some rhymed lay?
The leaves watch me as they wither,
and the acorns, pumpkins, too
whispering me secrets of coming winter
And must I not follow through?
I have a debt, but not a burden,
a requirement of words,
a message of thanks for Nature's ken,
that should ring forth like fighting swords.
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