Now all of autumn’s gaudy gold is spent,
Its bronze & ruby turned to brown and rust.
The fiery glory was not owned but lent,
Abandoned now to piles of ash and dust.
Handfuls of hungry, homeward crows are tossed,
Raucous, across November’s slate of skies.
The hopeful cricket at my doorstep dies,
And all September’s promises are lies.
Now, since my hopes beneath cold snow must sleep
I’ll dream of promises that Spring may keep.
Rosann Hickey, Greensboro
This poem was written for the Verse-Village celebration of April Poetry Month.
