an old writer and his words

The finches are strugglingthis morning, searching the lawnfor the odd clover seed that’s yet to be reduced to dust by a summerwhere the rain has paintedour world with a palette of parchment, ochre, leaving uswandering an increasingly sepia world.  We know that the rains will come again, that nature’s green will return, however briefly, beforewinter encases us all in…