Comments about Mines Yours
Hues of deep burgundy, the joyous reds
Arrest the tree leaves as they softly fall,
Crying to each other as the blush spreads
And darks the veins. A season call.
A skylark carols merrily, and sings
Praises to her paradise, heav’nly bliss.
The far off church tolls noon, the brass bell rings
A chime for the sun, as the gold rays kiss
The earth, dappling the dry ground with shadows