Autumn Morning
The sun edges its way over the pines, green still,
Over the river,
Where mists hover like ghosts.
And the grass
Strewn with day old leaves,
Glistens with new frost.
In the space of a week the colors have gone
From green to the
Gold and red of shortened days.
Leaves cling
Defying the northern wind
That will strip them to earth.
Branches like old hags fingers reach skyward,
Stark and grey.
Stripped of their colored robes
Like Joseph.
Praying for a soft snow
To blanket their naked limbs.
LineaLanoie's Weblog 