Women

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Midnight toils in blanket and dust,
Leaves tremble at the hand of autumn wind.
I plead my eyes to dare adjust,
This end of summer, shall it slight but end?
I pledge an ode to ever trust
The rainmaker, his clock half-past the hour,
Luxuries taken, beauty for lust,
Trust your daughter to the well bloomed
flower.
The smells of summer have long been dead,
The subtle tunes were in melody.
Those wild poppies, their faces red,
The piano collects dust silently.
The frost, he comes, to beckon me
To remember the color and hue,
But, alas, tis all I can see,
Neither a memory or thought of you.

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