As if a curtain had been raised to reveal
a whole new setting for the next act
of the play, the field stood transformed.
Gone were the gold and crimson hills.
Gone the goldenrod. In their place,
a wonderland stands, with pale, bare
sycamore branches dancing before
the dark hills with the last russet oaks.
And at their feet, acres of goldenrod,
now dried and white and fluffy as cotton,
paint a view of things to come.
The three of us, laughing, walk through
the billowing stalks and Betsy says
their tops look like the hats that elves wear.