by Ron Roberts

STILL AS THE MORNING AIR COMRADES LAY

WHITE CREST OF FROST FUELS THIS DAY

SO STILL THEY LAY LACKING ANY HINT OF FRAY

SCATTERED WITH A NATURAL ORDER OF DISARRAY

TILL BREEZES RISE LIGHT TO GROUND THEY’LL STAY

MARCH AS IF TO DANCE ACROSS FIELDS OF PLAY

IT’S WINDS OF TIME THAT CARRY THEM AWAY

TWISTING SWIRL FORMING TINY TUNNELS OF DISPLAY

BRILLIANCE OF FOLIAGE CATCHING BRIGHT SUN’S RAY

WAITING FOR CALM TO GATHER IF WE MAY

WINDROWS TO PILES CARRIED TO RESTING DECAY