Soft fronds, waving, in a gentle breeze

Like the wind, blowing, through your hair

Silently swaying, they do as they please

Soaking in fresh air, no time for despair

For winter’s iciness will do what it takes

To places, where the tall grasses grow

Alas, quivering, in the ripples on the lake

Is the last of where autumn freely flows

 

November Writing Prompt – Fresh Air, No Despair – Day 12/30

Photo and poem ©2018 Dorinda Duclos All Rights Reserved