Poetry |
|
October
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
|