As sun nears its nadir,
in November, at New England,
it pauses
for light to leap with delight
Between green grass ground
and brown leaves
lefttolinger
on many trees,
But not on maples,
whose burnt offerings
cushion many a fall.
Dave Read
Poems
Order should be imposed on my poems, but isn't likely to be until I turn to carpentry, or painting, to carry me through the day. The display here is latest first.