In these frost-tinged mornings,
children’s unmittened hands
turn red and burn with cold.
Beguiled by elaborate games,
they fail to notice, or to care.
Despite these shorter days,
intrepid dogs, owners in tow—
enfolded in thick fleece and wool
—follow trails, now unshaded,
deep into bright, stark woods.
Beyond these denuded trees,
somewhere, the first leaf twirls
and falls. Serrated shadows
slice lush emerald lawns, still
unmarred by autumn gold.
(c) 2019, by Hannah Six
Image: Winslow Homer, On the Trail (1889),
watercolor/graphite/wove paper, via Wikimedia
No comments:
Post a Comment