Aspen Grove in Autum
Gold
in high-altitude hues
scatters its abundance across the sky
Leaves,
full and round as moons, as coins,
fall brightly from aloft
to become the currency of change.
Without this harvest
of season's shift
spring would tire and dim
and green become a thing
less-longed for;
sought
only as the prize for those now living
and unappreciated as the
resurrection
of those who passed before.
Saturday, September 29, 2007
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2 comments:
I like your poetry......
You shine at short poems... so full of meaning and thought.
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