My Poetry. Golden Whisper, Crimson Sigh.
The days grow short, the air grows crisp and keen,A painter’s brush sweeps ‘cross the verdant scene.From summer’s blush to fiery hues they turn,Where amber, russet,...
The days grow short, the air grows crisp and keen,A painter’s brush sweeps ‘cross the verdant scene.From summer’s blush to fiery hues they turn,Where amber, russet,...