The Lion Sleeps Tonight

It's my young man's favorite song. He calls it 'bomboway'. No surprise, then, which costume he himself picked out, is it?

By Request

Sam wants an Autumnal poem.
An ode to fall he asks.
That gorgeous time, my favorite season.
Perhaps not the most difficult of tasks.

So, here I sit, in a large white room
morning sun a-streaming.
And wait for crisp foliage edged inspiration -
yeah, I must be dreaming.

I cannot seem to find the words
(unusual I know)
to tell of autumn's glory -
at least before I'm old.

How can I begin to describe
the crisp, clean autumn air
the smell of first fires on the breeze
the promise of winter air.

The sweaters and jackets,
the colors and tastes
Hot chocolate, cider
and thickening waists.

No, I'm afraid I cannot
write Sam the ode to Autumn.
Instead I stare at my blank screen
whilst I sit upon my bottom.