The Little Boy In the Velvet Red Vest
When my heels tromped down the dark narrow path
Where the buck- even – trod
It was early fall, and the trees were half trimmed.
The sun flickered through the barren tops,
and the greenish- brown canopy hung low and half dressed
However, it was not ashamed
The leaves crinkled and they crunched
where my feet and I traveled
And not too far, as I lagged along
I came upon an empty nest
It lay in decay
from the wind and the rain
For how long,
only as long as the eggs were gone
And while I stood there with my head half cocked
I looked close at the old dilapidated twigs that rot
I remembered the boy in the velvet red vest
O’ how nicely it was weaved
it fit snug around his delegate chest
I see him every spring
And no matter how old I get
He still wears the same velvet red vest
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