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