Late November

Now a season for desolate ambers to quilt worn pastures
As harsh north wind songs lash lonely Sycamore boughs,
Whose ghostly silhouettes beckon some endless horizons
And arch gaunt fingers to a swaying colding sky,
Heavy grey-misted clouds threaten a promise of yet to be
See withered grasses embrace worn twisted tangled corn skeletons,
To toss dance whispers upon an earth, carpeted so void, barren
Awaiting shrouds of hoarfrost soon sprinkled to their bosom,
A dismal stage defied by stark birches astep soft firs, here
and there
But Beyond, nothing, But nothing stirs,
Save some eternal vow of golden days that yet will, NO must, to be,
But Now of my dearest of mine children,
It is your time only
Only, that you must slumber.

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