There is a time year before
the leaves have all but come and gone,
the apples ripened to the core,
the wind still sings her gentle song.
Lightness of heart doth woe restore,
as still the days are warm and long,
nights darkness easier to adore,
it's cold bites not, or bites not strong.
A hearth and home as good as any,
a well known song, a lucky penny;
found upon an autumn's eave,
before the charms of summer leave.
benjamin jerzy oomen