Strange, sitting on the porch,
at six,  in the evening time;
skies have gathered darkness,
as I start, my budding rhyme.
October's spell,  nigh over,
ahead, lurks gray November,
cool winds and leafless trees,
the sensations,  I remember.
I wish fall would never end,
alas!  nothing lives forever;
life-it's like a breeze blown leaf,
whatever its endeavor.
Pages opened, pages closed,
the book of souls,   roll on;
with laughter, tears and love,
the remnants of its song.
Hold fast each golden moment,
of its lovely, shining gift;
that stands above all others,
and with the heart,  does lift.