Wednesday, November 30, 2011

Fall Hangs On It’s Arbor On The Door Of Winter by Stephen Craig Rowe


Fall hangs on it’s arbor as the last leaves are fallen, raked, burned and turned to ash. Yet some leaves are free to skitch streets,
swirl in winds and scratch windows
With fingers of old ghosts in the hand
of swaying tree branches.
Day goes dark before it’s time is taken
drawing sweet sunset all pastel pale bright and wanting in the gloaming
as sky turns cold and clear.
Bring in some of the outdoors with trees and light.
Warm the kitchen, take care of you and yours. 
Fall hangs on it’s arbor on the door of winter as
Liberty and Dragon dance eternal hand in arm in hand.
And Spirits of Indians dance in the wind.  As ever be well,
Stephen Craig Rowe

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