A Poet's Cry
When farthest fields of tall
grasses are dry and harshly mown.
Then, wildflowers to the wind fall
where beauty had once shown.
Wren and robin in mourning call
with songs of somber tone.
Men who are proud at nightfall,
laugh in haughty baritone.
Penning truths, poets wrap shawls
over spirits who moan.
Again, through the season’s squall,
a poet cries alone.
Glen of glowing words comfort all
on path from birth to stone.
Contest - Triple Rhyme
Sponsor - Beth Evans
Copyright © Rhonda Johnson-Saunders | Year Posted 2020
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