Friday Poetry: Autumn Leaves
One of the nicest beds I know
isn't a bed of soft white snow,
isn't a bed of cool green grass
after the noisy mowers pass,
isn't a bed of yellow hay
making me itch of half a day --
but autumn leaves in a pile that high,
deep, and smelling like fall, and dry.
That's the bed where I like to lie
and watch the flutters of fall go by.
~ Aileen Fisher
. . . flutters of fall.
Here is the coding if you want a button with a link to this week's round-up.
:: this post is part of the Friday Poetry roundup hosted by Holly Cupala.
:: one year ago today: our refuge and strength
:: two years ago today: more lovin''