The moon in high, three quarters bright,
In velvet, starlit, blue black night.
It's crisp and cold this early fall
With not a wayward cloud at all.
The air is sharp, like glass, it's clear,
A sign that winter's sleep is near.
The trees have blanketed their toes,
With yellow leaves and dusty rose.
The Winter King will break his fast,
The Green Man can lay down at last.
Near all of nature's children slow,
The grass and flowers no longer grow.
The frantic summer pace is done.
Most winter things are slower fun.
But in between the heat and cold,
A time of harvest colors bold.
When farmers fields give up their seed
And hunting fills the larders need.
The wind plays trees a different tune,
Then what she did way back in June.
The susurration through green leaves,
Becomes a moan a zephyr cleaves,
When branches bare, cut moving air.
It's less a brush and more a tear.
In little hollows under trees,
Misty veils move with the breeze,
Made luminescent by the glow
Reflected down here, far below.
The quality of light and air,
Has granted views beyond compare.
Slightly more than three times four
She cycles through her monthly chore.
Each quarter holds a different taste,
But none will pass in undue haste.
Still looking up through naked limbs,
I stand in thrall 'til darkness dims.
Richard Higley © Nov 23, 2013
