Poetry

Autumn Movement

I cried over beautiful things knowing no beautiful thing lasts.

The field of cornflower yellow is a scarf at the neck

of the copper sunburned woman,

the mother of the year, the taker of seeds.

The northwest wind comes and the yellow is torn full of holes,

new beautiful things come in the first spit of snow

on the northwest wind,

and the old things go,

not one lasts.

Carl Sandburg