Tuesday, September 22, 2015

Autumn

Green leaves that were pristine in spring
Are torn to tatters
But the late September day,
Nearly resembling,
The welcome warmth of May,
Seems all that matters,
Though should I stoop to pluck
An autumn aster
I’d wish I had the luck
To rise a little faster,
And roses that were once like girls
New and tightly furled
Now resemble, truth to tell,
Old women with their face lifts gone to hell.

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