Without Rhyme Or Reason

Soft, In The Season








Something soft in the season,
When autumn comes round,
The greens become muted,
Red covers the ground,
And leaves gently falling,
To settle below,
As they wait to be buried,
In pure virgin snow,
Sun rising much later,
And early to bed,
So the chill in the morning,
Left summer for dead,
And gone is the rhyme,
With no room for reason,
Dressing up the cashmere,
Something soft, in the season.



Linda Stuart Harnett © 2009








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Soft, In The Season

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