It’s time to find what we can burn,
for warmth,
for life,
forever.
What old thing hanging on,
dead skin,
tattered coat,
battered chair,
that might provide kindling in the coming season.
The wind blows in,
billowing with ill intent,
sending us clamoring to our closets
for our warmest memories.
Tell me a tale of a colder winter
and the way the flocks migrate
foretell a bitter future.
Only the mind of a hundred-year farmer
could prepossess such knowledge.
The magic Man didn’t make the party,
he was waylaid by his own garments.
Such colors precede his reputation
and you’ll find him in the trappings
of this harvest season.
Time to frighten the dark spirits,
lest they curse our winter stores.
This one,
just might be a bad one.
Best get back to stacking wood.
-HG
