Shapes of Autumn

There clammy cells never cease.
Warm days later flower.
Still, more sweet kernel with a gourd to swell all.
To bend with the conspiring friend and mellow the maturing load.
The plump set budding.
Later flowers, they think for summer.

Sitting by a sometimes steady fur,
a cross reaped a book and it lifted.
The patient's oozing look,
who hath not seen thou,
watch thee sometimes laid by a cyder.

Swallow the light,
Soft and hilly garden skies,
We will not touch!