Embroidery Poem by Peter S. Quinn

Embroidery of the forest
On to the fields of time
The wings of gray achiest
All in their grayness prime

Of dreams that once were
In the moments like drift
When summertime was near
In ways of its open whiffed

Foliage of winter falling
Thru steps of time’s thread
When gloom shades are calling
In tints of their brownish red

And day is shorter becoming
In each their light of rise
On earth open blossoming
That to the winter cold dies

Draperies of their burgeon lay
That fetches old rustic bled
When the forest murky play
Its wilderness meadows bed

Oh forest my old trail forest
In all the traditions you hold
Once proud habits of the florist
Now‘s in ashen winter’s cold