Many trees around me have lost all their leaves already, thanks to the vigorous northwest winds that blew through. The maples by the river are in fifty shades of gorgeous red; soon, they too will fall, leaving the trees nude in the winter grey.
All the old things go.
The evergreens last. Against the cloudy and dark November sky, the firs will be quite an exception. As if they are keeping a watch on everything that happens all around. They listen to our talking, the river rushing, the rain falling, the wind whistling.
They will be around when we also leave.
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.
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