THESE are the tawny days: your face comes back.
  
The grapes take on purple: the sunsets redden early on the trellis.
  
The bashful mornings hurl gray mist on the stripes of sunrise.
  
Creep, silver on the field, the frost is welcome.
  
Run on, yellow balls on the hills, and you tawny pumpkin flowers, chasing your lines of orange.
  
Tawny days: and your face again.

Added: Feb 4 2004 | Viewed: 1154 times | Comments (0)

Poet: Carl Sandburg
Poem: 13. Tawny
Volume: Smoke and Steel
- V. Mist Forms
Year: Published/Written in 1922
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