It’s time to find what we can burn,

for warmth,

for life,


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.



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