Nature is potent in yellows and greens,
Reds and oranges and all in-between,
With beauty as mankind has rarely seen,
Sight reminiscent of gods and of gold.

Leaves are briefest wand’rers on spinning top,
They run in a bolt with no time to stop,
Astride their steeds, panting, then tossed to rot,
Bought but for a moment, in time to be sold.

Mountains should tell us all we need to know,
In winter they dream, in springtime they sow,
They tower immense—regal—row by row,
Hide change in their pockets and truth in their folds;

They keep Time in their portals for us far below,
and would tell of Forever, if gods would allow.

Eric M. Vogt
Copyright 2016