Within the farthest reach of Summer,
Stone still warm from midday slumber,
The Land inhales the last
Of the great Sun’s past heat
And holds Her breath before
She gives in and admits defeat.
With the turning of a leaf autumn is here,
Heavy with fruit and offering to freely give
The harvest of the year.
And all withdraw into the mellow mists,
Into their homes, to the beginning,
Below the earth, to sleep, to rest.
I, too, sink slowly down, thoughts turned inwards,
Tending to my dreams, tending the small flame
Against a deeper darkness, greater silence.
And I wait – for in this stillness I can feel
Winter is coming.
© jsmorgane (Nov 2011)