Spinning Yarns

The maple-tops go red in fall
 and that would be enough, if all
 we wanted were the death
of all the summer's golden days.

The leaves go yellow, wither, fall,
 and drift upon the ground.
Withal, the bitter wind will scatter all
 a thousand separate ways.

And, buried under winter's pall, they sleep
 in hallowed frozen hall,
 beyond the ken of thane or thrall
'Til spring should thaw the days.

But if, instead, we wish to know
 the joy of how the flowers grow,
 bright and quick above the snow,
A thousand separate ways,

Then maple-leaves that scarlet fall,
 and drift upon the ground,
 withal are nothing, but the seeds
of all the summer's golden days.

Filed by Michael at 10:16 under Poetry
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Sometimes we are
 overwhelmed by shadows;
Wrought down in blackness,
 we can't see the stars.

Sometimes the light
 is distant and cold
and reality intrudes
 where dreams fear to tread.

We can't see the stars,
 wrought down in blackness,
overwhelmed by shadows.
 Sometimes we are.

Filed by Michael at 20:36 under Poetry
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