Mist rising from shorn fields
In it, the ghosts of autumn
Quiet, golden children
Coming to carry summer off
To a cradle of long sleep
editors note:
Every year, come children; drowsy for winter. – mh clay
Mist rising from shorn fields
In it, the ghosts of autumn
Quiet, golden children
Coming to carry summer off
To a cradle of long sleep
Every year, come children; drowsy for winter. – mh clay