I see a robin grasp a branch
With its leaves upon the ground
The locusts in the bushes
Hum their haunting mournful sound
The sun has passed into the distance
And beyond it’s even trek
The reds and browns of autumn
The oaks and maples fleck
These melancholy notes
Of the early eventide
Sweep me up like yellow grasses
Climbing ‘cross the hilly slide
I wonder of the future
Amid these waves of notions past
And hold strongly to those moorings
That endure until the last
The quiet of these moments
Is a peace I long to share
The winds of winter beckon
Geese sound their warning blare:
Awaken all ye travelers
The northern breezes blow
It’s time to tend the fires
Of the hearths found here below
Soon the frosts upon the grasses
Will be drifts upon the ground
And the chattering of the windows
Will be our only evening sound
10/5/17
Poetry and Verse 