The shore is cold in autumn,
the sand is dull and grey
and full of dead things.

The air has a hint of frost
and the waves crash frigid
upon the slick rocks.

I walk, wrapped well
in a warm wool sweater,
but my shoes are in my hands,
and my pants rolled up,
my feet bared to the freezing waters.

I like the cold.
I like autumn.
And I especially like autumn
by the rocky shore.

The beach is deserted
when the last warm rays
of summer have fled.
A peace enters in.
No, more of a solitude.
There can be no peace
with those crashing waves.

The trees have turned
luscious reds and firey oranges
and warm golds that belie
the cooling, shorter days.

The equinox is passed
and winter is upon us.
Soon, ice will creep slowly
out onto the lake,
fighting the waves,
subduing them beneath.

Then I shall sit inside
my cozy cabin,
warm by the crackling fire
while the wild winter storms
wail and rail outside.

The water is cold,
but not tinged with frost.
The seaweed turned greeny-black
beneath weak, filtered sunlight
that streams down between
the fat grey clouds that hover above.

A gull cries, high above,
a bit of grey-tipped white
floating foamily above the waves.

The canoe is shored up,
next we'll batten the eaves.
Apples will be picked fresh,
and we'll enjoy one last picnic
in the glorious wood.

Today is beautiful
and not to be wasted.
So I use it wisely
and wander the rocky shore.