Our fall has come
I feel its shroud
Pervade the early morning,
while nature’s tears,
Which once meant life,
are drumming down in mourning.
And on the ground
in humble brown
The branches’ pride
are fading—
The fall is here
and winter looms
With death
its choice of lading….
Please speak to me
of summer sun
And tell me again of spring,
for winter threatens
Gloom and doubt,
but you still wear my ring.
My brow’s not smooth,
my words, not quick,
My steps, unsteady now,
but all those things
I used to be
still touch your heart, somehow….
If you will reach
and take my hand,
Winter might let us be,
and spring may come
And smile on us—
on you, my love, and me.
A Hill resident, the author believes that the appreciation of art should not be influenced by the vagaries or prejudices of biography.
