recounting the tale

this is the deed that falls out of my hand

your heart is open now to all our care

a touch of autumn comes upon the air

there is so little that we could demand

we look at nature and think it all grand

but know that not a thing is ever fair

that simple action is more than we dare

and each of us is forced to take a stand

my thought is open to whatever makes

sense in the morning when we first arise

to see the world fullest impure glory

not caring about all the shocks and aches

that keep us from the truest golden prize

or so we seem to tell that final story