Old leaves have no defence against the wind. <br />A gray hawk is October's inner cry. <br />The bells of Salem church play elegies. <br />Distance becomes a single snowflake's fall. <br /> <br />The mood is blue as autumn's last frost flowers, <br />Small bits of heaven hidden in the grass. <br />Tom Roach who called them by their favored name, <br />Went home across the green fields long ago. <br /> <br />Yet sometimes when the light moves slowly west, <br />And bells summon a faithful few for prayers, <br />I see his shadow picking a bouquet. <br />To live in memory is to be alive. <br /> <br />For my grandfather who started to work in the coal mines of West Virginia when he was twelve years old.<br /><br />Sandra Fowler<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-hymn-to-frost/
