The fields have been garnered
Hills relinquish red
The glory of nature
Is bowing Her head
The passion of posies
Submits to repose
Back road daisy havens
Subdued and morose
The sweep of Time’s Swansong
Permeates the air
Where what was leaf-laden
Is muted and bare
As dreamers look forward
But nostalgic hearts
Look back with love’s longing
At all Time imparts
Where Death seems the victor
And earth seems a tomb
Instead of a haven
That harbors spring’s bloom
Where all that was giddy
With laughter, leaf-wild
Is weaned from the tresses
Like youth from a child
And no one can conquer
Though we may rebel
At the Supremacy
Pervading the dell
And filling fervency
With sighs, bittersweet
October is over
It lies at our feet
© Janet Martin
"Oh", sighs Victoria as we are driving this morning, "I wish I
could paint".
We are drinking in the sorrow-beauty of almost barren trees.
"A pen is the most wonderful paint-brush in the world", I tell
her.
We paint with the brushes we are given.
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