Faerynn M.
My blogs
| Introduction | Summer's flurry of green is over, Apples are ripe, Mown is clover. Colors, ablaze On mountains, burn, Smolder, and flame As the seasons turn. harvest moon Comes up at dusk, Gold as pumpkin or corn in the husk. But when she floats higher And shrinks in the nigh, Moon gleams with a promise Cold and white. ~Harry Behn |
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