|Nebraska Center for Writers|
While October was culminating,|
autumn got into the jewelry box
of these thriving bushes, and
silently pocketed the emeralds,
leafing these radiant red rubies,
and, running through the pasture,
scattered diamonds on Silver Creek.
Now this crowned season
in crimsoned autumn air,
with fields gone russet,
dazzles brilliantly. Oh,
that I were queen
of these woodlands.
Plum blossoms bloom soon blushing road sideís face,
green pastures, fields floweríd in the wild rose,
and every turn reveals sweet Summerís grace,
birthed from the tender seeds lovely Spring sows.
And you my blue-eyed love, my blonde-haired boy,
your golden skin, your muscled sturdy frame,
kissed by sunís love each year youíve farmed with joy,
youíve spilled your love out on the land the same.
Soon Summerís greens flame into Autumnís reds,
the harvest of loveís labors ripe with grain
years grace your face as Summers now have fled
and leave their trace of Edenís curse ingrained.
Sweet fruits and flowers the gift of Spring timeís seed
in love, the harvest of manís toil indeed.