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Peccadillos

Tags: love

As the essence of autumn's potpourri blow
across the meadows of reds and umbers
leaves drift by my window with memories
like a carpet of velvet frost

Of when the picket fence was white
and the apples in the orchard were ripe
as the cider touched your lips
like cinnamon sticks of sweet

And the bees had their own peccadillos
in the comb of the honey bear trees
across the meadows of reds and umbers
beneath a trellis of October's unforgotten

Now that the picket fence is reeling
of aged blite and splinters
leaves drift by my window with memories
but the bees still have their peccadillos

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