orchards where a little child
Begged seeds of thistle in her treble coo,
As both her parents fluttered, shy and mild,
I asked, "What wisdom shall I write of you?"
They told me, "Numbers," and through golden fire,
I saw the sinking sun extend his reach
Deep into fall, but only through the squire
Whose touch becomes the glory of the peach.
With busy wings about the ripened fruit,
Sweet harlequins, you say the year is late.
Your choruses will warm the iron root
Of winter, and the revels that await
Kind eyes that share a drink of such accord,
An everlasting spring is their reward.
© 2010 by Ellin
Anderson. All rights reserved.
No part of this work may be copied or used in any way
without written permission from the author.