Clusters spring from the moundsnAssembled acorns form shapes of crownsnAll the fair folks singnUnto the wise who know to listennSleeping creatures revivenWoke by the faintest pinch of the pinesnMy own lyric ceases as a song arrivesnnOh oh, oh ohnOtherly OpusnnAutumn calls down the leavesnTells the maple “Drip from the trees”nSends out invitationsnTo unwrap the gift of seasonsnWhat may come after these?nAge of sciences and of dreamsnMedicines, inventions, and philosophies