As if a curtain lifted to reveal
a grand new setting for the next act
of the play, the field had been transformed.
Gone were the gold and crimson hills.
Gone the goldenrod. In their place,
a wonderland stands, the pale, bare limbs
of the sycamore dancing with the last leaves
of the russet oaks below the dark hills.
And at their feet, acres of goldenrod,
white now and as fluffy as snow,
spread to the field’s edge,
a sneak preview of things to come.
We walk through the billowing stalks, laughing,
and Betsy says they look like hats
that elves would wear.