By Vivi Sojorhn

 

Green hangs on as long

As it can in bowers of grey

The days seem to be a con

Though, shorter than yesterday.

No matter how warm, even the sun

Cannot fool us into believing

Because the nights drop a chill on

Those branches and now the leaves

Hold the losing light golds, oranges, cherries and plums

No longer hanging for

Hands to pluck, no, just clumps of color

Creating a lace so lovely it feeds the soul.

 

Copyright (c) Vivi Sojorhn