Oh mournful morn, how dull the corn
Shivers on field and stricken hill
The hour that plucks high-noon then dusk
Has folded back to earth its thrill
The chill wind sobs from morn to night
While we absorb a season’s flight
The weathered trail of wood and dale
Flaunts autumn’s russet pirouette
Feet dash and race or slowly trace
The aftermath of summer-set
And all beneath the lowered sky
The muffled robes of autumn lie
We do not mourn, though Time has torn
Another chapter from its ream
A strange relief, half hope, half grief
Stirs wildly in our untried dream
For Time is not a garnered thing
But ever-present offering
© Janet Martin
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Thank-you for stopping by my porch! I hope you were blessed!