By brian francis
Seasons pass to fall from summer.
Life grows still and forests slumber.
Reds, Yellows, and browns from green
the passing moments of life, unseen.
Leaves that fall to blanket the ground
Moments lost cannot be found
Fires smolder in the morning’s cold
The scent still lingers pungent bold
Steamed up windows, crystal panes
outside, the chilly country lanes.
Coffee warms a deep-chilled soul.
Crisp, clear is the church bells toll
Copyright © 2020 brian francis
Wordsmith: At The Forge 