methow grist 2011-2014 archive


AspenĀ  Leaves, October

They must have caught the eye
of the sun, one
too many times.
We listened those long hours
as they back-talked their way
to the ground. Slap. Slap.

Jealous wind.

No more swish and flash, or
startled flickers and wrens.
The leaves lie breathless.
Colors of coins and blood.

Tomorrow, we'll hardly notice them,
bruised and sullen, muted in frost.
Nothing gold can stay

Poem by Linda M Robertson

"Nothing gold can stay" Robert Frost


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