THE GIFT

THE GIFT

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Autumn’s vigor will not be spent. I think

each day will be its last. Hard wind all night

and morning comes, still red and gold remains.

Even under gray clouds, the yellow light

pours from the hills. Even October rains

cannot tear the tenacious colors down.

Blackbirds gather to offer their chatter

against the brittle corn. Warblers have flown

away; geese are flying. The winter birds

stay. How is it that autumn now is sweet,

more lingering than spring, kinder than summer?

Winter is a melody I’ve not yet heard,

but I shall sing in time. The seeds are scattered.

The bright green grasses fade around my feet.

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