I simply like this poem. Read the last two posts for more autumn poems with more creative ideas for teaching.
Talk about prose-poems vs. the Keats’ poem a few entries back.
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.