That Cool Crisp Breeze
Posted: Tuesday, November 06, 2007
by Rodney Biamby
The sun in its splendor was going away,
the autumn winds blew chasing Fall leaves that day.
The cool crisp breeze was echoing change,
for homes in the city, for homes on the range.
The colors of rust, yellow, orange and brown,
leaves of all colors covered the ground.
Night fall had settled closing the day,
the end of that chapter, with change on the way.
Time was ushering change to come,
like a mom urges children, like a dad with his son.
That cool crisp wind blew and blew,
change had come making room for the new.
The season has come for that change to take place,
no more time is allotted just our pace in the race.
Like leaves that change from green, yellow to brown,
the idea of change can cause grins to be frowns.
However, in change it’s beauty I see,
the colors of autumn do it for me.
I love the brown, yellow and red,
with those leaves on the ground forming a bed.
Oh, the skies so blue and that cool crisp breeze,
like a sigh of relief the creation’s at ease.
With all of this beauty we have to face,
that change is upon us, this change we embrace.
The changes in life make us grow,
sometimes it’s fast, sometimes it’s slow.
The dying leaves that fall from the trees,
simply make room for the spring coming seeds.
Change is good when it’s for the better,
so don’t try to buck change, don’t try to be clever.
In the order of life for new things to come,
some things must die, while other things are begun.
The winds of change are blowing fast,
the leaves of our lives are gone at last.
The spring times at hand for new flowers to bloom,
That change for the better is coming soon.
ahh, i loved it. melodic. understandable. some poetry i don't like because i can't understand it, it doesn't mean it isn't good, i just have no way of knowing. i understood every word you said. you painted a picture, and i saw with my eyes. now, keep painting with your words, best regards, sue thomThank you Sue. I'm glad you loved it. I will continue painting with my words with the pen as my brush and the paper my canvas.
