Thursday, September 8, 2011
As aging summer spreads her hands
To catch the falling leaves,
She turns them into wondrous shades,
The autumn patterns she weaves.
To make them whisper and to shake
She gently blows them round
Allowing sun to glint on gold
As they flutter to the ground.
The floor is now a carpet of bronze
An amazing sight to behold
The artists pallet could not improve
As onward the season rolls.
Poem by Carol