Autumn Blue Mist

By Hilda Conkling

This is night’s own trailing wind
That goes by in blue mist
When morning wakes.
This is not smoke from chimneys,
No fire breathes and puffs it out
Across the sun.
This is autumn on an October morning . . .
Early hills,
Fields in a veil.

Dear Black Child - Grace Storm Ad

Dear Black Child - Grace Storm Ad
Dear Black Child - Grace Storm Ad