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.
I cried…
Comments
One response to “I cried…”
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Well, they’re also regularly replaced in space by new beautiful things. :)
An endless cycle of half full or empty.
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