Can you write a poem about autumn?

A quiet amber settles on the lane,
where summer slowly folds its green away.
The wind runs low, a hint of early rain,
and shadows lengthen through the shorter day.

The maples flare in copper, rust, and gold,
then softly let their heavy branches bare;
a secret that the earth has always told:
there is a grace in letting go to air.

A smoky sweetness rises in the chill,
as acorns drop and scatter on the ground.
The evening settles deep against the hill,
and evening leaves a softer, calmer sound.

No rush remains, no urgency to keep—
just quiet rest before the world falls deep.