10/26/2025
In Dahlonega’s cradle, where the Blue Ridge sighs,
North Georgia wakes to autumn’s quiet art.
The maples bleed in crimson, gold, and rust,
Each leaf a lantern hung on heaven’s heart.
Yahoola Creek winds silver through the glade,
A ribbon stitched in emerald, ochre, jade.
Its waters murmur secrets to the stones,
While sumac flares like torches in the shade.
The oaks surrender slowly, bronze and bold,
Their acorns clink like coins on mossy floors.
Sweetgums ignite in starburst scarlet hues,
A wildfire tamed within the forest’s doors.
Spring’s tender green gives way to summer’s blaze,
Then autumn paints the hills in molten light.
Yahoola bends beneath the weight of color,
Reflecting every flame that crowns the height.
Winter whispers next, a hush of frost and bone,
Yet even then the creek will sing alone—
A silver thread through seasons ever turning,
In Dahlonega’s heart, forever burning.
