Every year in Autumn Indian Summer comes,
Blazing trees his war paint, wings of birds his drums.

Snowy clouds his headdress, flung against a sky,
Blue as turquoise wampum. Golden grass grown high

On the sloping meadows makes his doeskin clothes.
Sumac and wild creeper red and redder glows

In his warming campfire, and his pipe smoke strays,
Filling folds and valleys with a summer haze.

But just when you’ve forgotten that none of this will stay -
Sudden as the nightfall - he has gone away,

Taking all his colors. And in the chilly dawn
Frost is on the Autumn hills. Indian Summer’s gone.

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Many thanks to Barbara Klaskin Silberg for permission to display these lyrics.
© Barbara Klaskin Silberg. All rights reserved. Used with permission.

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