Old Indian-Wolf River

By Sarah LuAnn Jensen

Down the hushed the night...

One star shining bright;

Down through the wooded hills

I walk the bank of

Old Indian-Wolf River.

I hear the songbirds cry;

Their delicate soft music,

White surge along the rive;

I smell the sweet flowers...

Oh where has my summer gone?

I feel cool misty clouds

Do the wooded hills;

So close to winter do I see

Ice-cold winds and silver rain

And night stars so still.

The lightening flashes...lashes

the dark night, and the wind...

The cold blowing wind...

Our warm solitude of summer

Left a sigh, never wanting

To say goodbye...

And the geese fly south

Searching for a warmer sky.

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Autumn's First Storm

By Sarah LuAnn Jensen

Neath the tree I stop to rest.

The woods path carepeted with

brown leaves all around...

orange, yellow falling to the

ground, they spin, they turn:

The forest-world quiet, the forest

empty.  Little creatures all hidden

from autumn's first storm.

The Summer gone, a chill of wind.

The windflowers faded, dance

the moon-glow...till life's end.

Neath the tree I stop to rest.

The leaves spin, falling, falling

all ablaze in a glory. A death

come to summer.

Now it's autumn's time upon

the stage.  The days of warm over...

gone our summer.