The assignment was to write a rhyming couplet poem about fall colors.  

The Texas version I posted earlier:  Leaves turn brown.

                                                            Fall down.

                                                               It's fall.

                                                             That's all.

                                                                            wasn't quite adequate.

This is the one I sent. I have just learned it placed FIRST

CRIMSON LEAVES 

A kind of aching sadness reaches me

while watching as our sugar maple tree,

her crimson leaves like bitter, falling tears,

grows bare-limbed, stark--as in all her former years.

In the autumn of my life, may I stay bright

until I turn to gray and fade from sight.

For I discern what falling leaves can’t know:

When finally I fall I will not go

to merely dust and ashes. I will rise

to Him who made the trees, the earth and skies.

For He who suffers not a sparrow’s fall,

remembers me and hears me when I call.

I’ll rise to new life trees have never seen,

and never fade again--forever green.

A couple of weeks ago I posted my "Fall Colors of Texas" poem.  It went like this:

     Leaves fall down

     Turn brown.

     It's fall.

     That's all.

Many of my readers expressed appreciation for that work of art, and my Texas readers understood it well.

In the process of trying to write the poem I eventually entered, I wrote a couple of others that were not quite ready for competition.  This is one:

AUTUMN COLORS

In high summer days it’s hard to get serious

about the oncoming season and how mysterious,

that when trees thick and leafy in oak groves are granting

to dogs old and young, who are drawn to it panting,

rest and refreshing in its gentle cool shade,

don’t notice its leaves beginning to fade.

Bright red is the sugar maple’s glory

but gold and orange tell their own story,

of how chlorophyll’s needed to keep the leaves green.

If we didn’t know better we’d think it was mean

that this sun-scorched land would take what is pretty

And turn it plain brown—monochrome, dirty.

It makes me wonder--inspires me to utter

that the One who suffers no sparrow to flutter

without his knowledge, will be still be around

when our purpose is finished and we fall to the ground

                                 and turn brown

The assignment was a triolet poem.

  TRUE LOVE

True love, like wine, grows deep with years

   When born at noon some clear spring day.

Through sleepless nights and bitter tears,

True love, like wine, grows deep with years,

Sweet solace as our sunset nears,

   Recalling when love came to stay.

True love, like wine, grows deep with years

   When born at noon some clear spring day.