October Trees . How innocent were these Trees, that in mist-green May, Blown by a prospering breeze, Stood garlanded and gay; Who now in sundown glow Of serious colour clad Confront me with their show As though resigned and sad. . Trees who unwhispering stand Umber and bronze and gold, Pavilioning the land For one grown tired and old; Elm, chestnut, beech, and lime, I am merged in you, who tell Once more in tones of time Your foliaged farewell.
Embrace change even if you want to run from it. Ralph Shrader
stugkatt at yahoo dot com
It is easier to say what and who I'm not. — I'm not my profession — I'm not my salay — I'm not my age — I'm not my illness — I'm not my civil status So who am I? — a person just the right size and age — an untidy pedant — a conservative radical And what do I do? — weave — read — listen to music, classical preferably baroque