After the Indian Summer

When the Boston Fern drops her last frons, and the wind simmers down to a purr, and the yellow jacket bites it’s last victim, and the hound groans alone in the woods. When leaves blanket malachite moss’, While the geese fly in militant form, The babbling brook in its glory, Silvery slivers of ice passes on. Candles reflect frosted windows, Fire flames dance through the night Dreams of a better tomorrow, And with Faith, Love will always abide.