Autumn Autumn fans its flaming Torch across each turquoise hill. Drifts of swirling, ripened leaves fall in a kaleidsope of coral, amber, gold, forming a mat for moist, decaying compost mold. Softly the pale yellow from the rising sun effervescent with dawns early chill. It filters and warms shaded Paths, the open, flaxen field heavy with pumpkins, wheat, a bounteous yield. Scarecrows sway peering at the farm hands bailing hay. Birch trees stand white washed above the tangled brush surrounded by disrobing maples, oak and walnut. They lend a blend of fantasy to mornings muted hush. Boldly the Advent of day splashes the lightly frosted ground with burning colors so opulent and gay. Harvest brings a melancholy composing its own song with sound, sight, and pungent smell. Somewhere an ovens yeasty odor tells a tantalizing tale . Lingering thoughts of yesterday fill our hearts, but not for long, for beauty is today. Lorena Johnson © 1971 Love to all and Happy Friday.
Posted on: Fri, 19 Sep 2014 12:31:36 +0000
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