Fields lie fallow
Weary old men with frosted whiskers
Settling in for the long nap

Forests robbed of gold and rubies
Stand forlorn, wringing their limbs
And the spruces sigh, there, there

The river’s eye is swollen
Knocked about by a north wind
Muddied and oozing over its banks

But hush,
The battle for the season is almost won
And winter will come with her blankets and gauze
Come with her command to lie still and rest

All will be healed


Leave a Comment

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *