© Bruce Goodman 1 September 2014
It’s lovely from the hill today.
A flock of autumn crows are twirling near
And floating-slow like burnt paper in the air,
And vines blood and yellow on a black butterfly
Die slowly as the cold comes
In leaden droplets. Far away, hills turn, hand in hand,
As giant square-dancers turn, happy in a warmer land.
The purple winds call old, sad melodies.
When fifty years limp by and I’m bones and cold
With yellow skin a tattered leaf,
They’ll say, though his bones be straight,
His heart was bent and cried
Like a child on its lonely walks.
It’s autumn, and the scarecrowed trees shed gold.
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Weave a Web 