Into the Woulds
The harvest moon rises, the old bullfrog croaks
And a cricket crescendo takes wing
And how the wind howls through the old broken oak
In a feeble attempt to sing
When autumn arrives, or when autumn leaves
When all seems to be as it should
Those soft-spoken memories are heavy this eve
As we wander off into the woulds
Let us stroll through the slanted gold sunlight
And over that mossy stone wall
But what if we find there is no other side
And what if we fall through the fall?
When it’s October, or when it’s Oct-over
When it seems we’ve done all that we could
November remembers the stories we told her
When we wandered off into the woulds.
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