Clay and stones, made moist with dew
Make for a fine rind of Autumn paints
To coat the skirting of the Tree.
The Tree stands firm,
Forgiving of the lash and bite of frosted rains.
Generous to the bird and beetle,
That harbour at its breast.
In the season, it clings to every leaf that
Is gently tugged upon
And, when ready, it aims the array,
And releases a fall of browned, rich hands,
An applause to the grey-cast clouds,
A farewell to the fading grasses,
An ovation to the wind, that whistles
Sweetly through the boughs.
Danielle K. Day
Since it’s technically Day 4 and I’ve only got three poems up, I’ve done another one today. ^_^