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