The cottonwood trees outside my door
Have blown their dust upon the ground.
As I rake them more and more
The leaves continue to fall down
In colors of deep red and brown.
I try as though it is a quest
To clear the yard of autumn's mess,
But find my will to be useless
Against the season's foe.
I turn inside to go.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment