Thursday, November 6, 2014

How Strange is Change

On my way,
on a shiny day;
a tree stood still,
on a sloping hill;
all alone,
nay it moan;
its leaves were drying,
a few lay dying;
some leaves red,
some on grassy bed;
its age shone,
through a pine cone;
its crimson dye,
caught my eye;
i felt so strange,
how nice is change!

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