Frail woodsmoke smells as fragrant as the dusk,
A West Virginia red bird for your thoughts.
Our shadows stretch as far as Salem church,
The place where poetry first came to me.
Two miles away in West Columbia,
A train whistles its version of the blues.
The landscape fades in tune with loneliness.
Such sweet sadness is not replacable.
It is the last day for the goldenrod.