Around Mid-November
#1
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
#2
Top edged with a fringe of morning gold,
Brightly tipped near centering thoughts,
Half moon out in early cold
As I begin my walks.
#3
Summer in the midst of Fall,
Warm frost clinging to my bones,
Precluding Winter.
Copyright ©
Wm Paul | Year Posted 2012
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