Cycle


Mountain, so far away, in a realm of misty grey.
Feels the touch of winter days, brush past the autumn haze.
Glint of gold from shattered sun lingers on the peak.

Quiet now, the hush of dark, creeps into the air.
Steals the gold that summer’s light had scattered everywhere.
Everything now soft and dim, a breeze plays through the night.

Restless wind begins to blow upon the early snow.
Shakes the trees for extra leaves to carry to its home.
Empty branches of a rugged oak scrape against the stars.

An icy peak so cold and harsh, a quiet forest glade.
The moon that once was new and bright has now begun to fade.
An owl perched on crooked branch launches into sky.

Dawn approaches, stars wink out, the moon cannot be found.
Close by the oak, a heard of deer inspect the dewy ground
Like ripples racing through a pond, the sounds of day unfold.

Anew the sun, with golden rays, conquers mighty mountain’s haze.
Sets afire highest peak, before it sinks again to sleep.

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