Irene Conway

If June is a maiden
October is not;
Her motherly providence
Winter will thwart.

Her apron is brimming
With summer's sweet yield
And late-staying birds
Now are sweeping the field.

Cerulean blue is the
Hue of her skies
And her warm noon-day sun
Frosty mornings belies.

Her gardens are lush
With bright asters and mums
And broad dahlia faces
Smile sweet in the sun.

Her ears are still tuned
To the drone of the bees
But after All Hallows
Her busy days cease.

October 3, 2003

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