Aglow Poem by Carolyn Brunelle
Aglow
The season’s last days
drift golden from the trees;
winter now whispers
its own arrival if you please.
A chill is in the air
and fog hangs in low;
yet it is 'her' memory
lingers on wherever I go.
The rain sounds so sweet
splattering at my feet,
but the beauty of Autumn
remains aglow within.
Sunday, April 3, 2011
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5/7/2024 4:10:32 AM # 1.0.0.1119
