fall poem

the snow whispers about me
she limps with halting painful pace
gone are the three, those sisters rare
in new york harbor
out of me unworthy and unknown
high walls and huge
a gleam of gold in gloom and gray
it tells of good old times
green afternoon serene and bright
i saw the clouds among the hills
under the harvest moon
he's gone
all those treasures that lie
the darkness steals the forms of all the queens