Written by: Wm Paul

Flaring high a herald flung its head,
Northward turned were splintered ends,
And pointed Westward turned ones,
Which were as hooks caught on a coat of blue

Top edged with a fringe of morning gold,
Brightly tipped near centering thoughts,
Half moon out in early cold
As I begin my walks.

Summer in the midst of Fall,
Warm frost clinging to my bones,
Precluding Winter.