Pots Of Gold

this is the turning of the year

the final scene before the curtain falls

the squirrel warm within his bed of leaves

can not hear the wind that blows around the chimney pots

are like the pilgrim of the year gone by

he sliips

once he was a young man

who loved in the spring

and lay beneath the upturn sky on long hot summer days

but with autumn he grows mellow

he looks over his shoulder down the long year path of no

already he's but a memory fading like a shadow on the wall

but time with restless footsteps hurries by

and now beside the road

there stands the pilgrim of the year to be

falling leaves turn to gold

silver flowers on my window

spirit of the fading year gently slips away

he knows not where

he cannot see



naked trees in the sky

stars are shinning clear and cold

minstrel of the ages sings of words so long ago

that age-old tune w