The morning has a filtered lens
To soften harsh November grey
A blurring of the sharper edge
A misting of the brooding day
Like satin robe
In truffle hue
The day slips over dormant bed
And lingers there in pearls of dew
To jewel every drooping head
Of Aster
Rose and Goldenrod
That worshipped summer til the end




Sara Mathews     November 2015