The Year Turns Old Poem by Paul Reed
The Year Turns Old
The afternoon slumbers slowly on
Chill winds abated and rainfall held
On high, black and grey billows are seen;
Not yet autumn nor the end of summer
A time without a season
A state of in between
Mark well these uncertain days
No fire yet in the grate
For soon the burnished red and gold
Will lay its shifting regal carpet
Filling borders and under hedges
To turn the new year old
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4/26/2024 4:34:02 PM # 1.0.0.1119
