Speak my last soft words
to the green leaf
of the clover field.
The day has grown long,
only in its absence.
Soon, the cold hand
of night
will have its way,
and lost souls will take their rest,
if they can find any.
The frost will first
light upon the grass,
before the snow falls
and piles deep.
Cold will creep down every root
and up every wall,
and the hoar
will grow thick up on the boughs.
There is a peace that comes
when the stillness steal upon us.
Only starlight,
or the moon breaking the night.
An endless depth,
as if the night sky
has come to comfort us,
and the infinity of space
sits up on the ground.
Soon
will come our day of remembrance,
before the breath of winter
whispers once more.
We will seek refuge in each other,
bringing all we love indoors
to keep us warm.
HG – 2020