September's Rent - a poem

It is Autumn and the year grows weary;
even the Sun wakes later.
He rises robed in luminescent clouds,
braced against the chill morning air.

Likewise Mother Earth feels it in her bones
as she settles back and draws her resplendent cloak about her:
Gold, brown, orange, crimson
Soon she'll pull on her white winter blanket,
a little better for slumber.

Yet first she turns her leaves and contemplates her ledger,
for September's rent is paid in October:
the Summer's accounts settled in
Gold, brown, orange, crimson.
Green transmuted by the cold, hard air into currency ephemeral
given value only in how it thrills us to behold.