What strange messages
has autumn handed us!
They hold their branch,
by their withering root.
Once flushed in greens,
they fall, die, Indian gold.
Blanketing our solid grounds,
quilting our grey ways.
Dec 3, 2018
Dec 3, 2018 at 9:38 AM UTC
What strange messages
has autumn handed us!
They hold their branch,
by their withering root.
Once flushed in greens,
they fall, die, Indian gold.
Blanketing our solid grounds,
quilting our grey ways.
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