A Poem As the Fall Passes Into Winter

I awoke this morning to see winter clearly on the horizon. It dawned on me that I had not given much blog time to fall. So I offer this poem and a few photos of a pleasant fall day in the mountains. Enjoy!

A LATE WALK by Robert Frost
When I go up through the mowing field,
The headless aftermath,
Smooth-laid like thatch with the heavy dew,
Half closes the garden path.

And when I come to the garden ground,
The whir of sober birds
Up from the tangle of withered weeds
Is sadder than any words.

A tree beside the wall stands bare,
But a leaf that lingered brown,
Disturbed, I doubt not, by my thought,
Comes softly rattling down.

I end not far from my going forth
By picking the faded blue
Of the last remaining aster flower
To carry again to you.