We'll be the wild ones...
Poem to Autumn
Autumn Movement by Carl Sandburg
I CRIED over beautiful things knowing no beautiful thing lasts.
The field of cornflower yellow is a scarf at the neck of the copper sunburned woman, the mother of
the year, the taker of seeds.
The northwest wind comes and the yellow is torn full of holes, new beautiful things come in the first
spit of snow on the northwest wind, and the old things go, not one lasts.
Cella Anita Celic
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