The wind blows bleakly autmnn from the west
To send late leaves to their cold winter’s nest;
Our bare brown woods contains one sturdy oak
That blushes hotly for less modest folk.
A goldfinch clinging to a swaying weed
Pries lustily to crack a stubborn seed;
His song, as he loops gracefully away,
Mocks gently at this “melancholy” day.
by Ray Romine Friday, October 31, 1952
