Born a wanderer without a name, I blaze in glory, then hide in shame. Stone or iron, I fall from the skies, Earth takes me, yet the heavens I prize

In the north I am hot, In the south I feel gray. The sixth of twelve is my lot, My squire is solstice day.

Forwards I'm a forest creature A homophone for what you love Backwards, a plant that marshes feature And in instruments through which air you shove

Golden hues and crimson bright, Leaves descend softly, in the twilight light. A season of change, with winds so bold, Fiery colors, as nature's canvas unfold.

I am what you call an early riser. Leave me out and breakfast will be more the miser. Because I am a friend of the mushroom that loves my sugar.