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Over harvested fields —

I walk beneath the fading afterglow
of a forgotten lantern   a path worn
by wanderers older than the scroll of Zeno
its damp salve seeping through my coat
into my bones

Fog an Erebian curtain   a Stygian veil
barn swallows following
susurrus secrets of the soul   each step
a slow exhalation   a farewell elucidating

Underfoot vestiges of ancient parchment
leaves crumble   not in death but in their
final kindred confession

Over fields of harvested rye —

I press my ear to the earth   can you hear them
the murmur of stories only the soil enshrines
an unburdening before winter grip tightens

My breath lingers in the thickening air
and in its wake fields stretch bare and endless—
not a linen but a wound   its harvest reaped
flesh raw under Uranus' cold gaze

Sombras stretch long across the land
blemishes from battles lost and forgotten
Through tattered spectacles fogged and cracked
with age   I trace shadows—each one an antiphon
of memory faint   echoes of myth and mortal
lives long passed   like the dust of letters
or the smell of a forgotten fire

Over fields of harvested wheat —

A mouse darts through frost-drenched meadows
its tiny body trembling against winter's
creeping scepter   and I feel it too —
the bite of time gnawing at my essence
It feasts on my hidden fear   days I dare not count
the slow pull of gravity on my crow's feet and lines

Life teeters on a filament spun from brittle mist
my heart my pulse my throb but a steady drum
amidst the quietude of past reveries

I question in this stillness
as my heart beats to the rhythm of an ending
I can't outpace

I draw the curtains on the day's tumult
the shepherd's call dwindles
dissolving like the last breath of a song
its pages frayed and trembling broken
an unfinished nocturne

The seasons turn and with each breath
the soil promises a new birth

Over fields of harvested barley…

Nature cloaks itself in tranquil silence
within this calm psalm I sense a flicker
a palpitation as old as stars   a quiet hymn of the ancients
where creation like the dawn waits to unfurl its wings

Not hope not yet—
but a pulsating promise coursing in my veins
a gentle warmth rises from the earth's cool touch
stirring softly   as she   coming life a rebirth
beneath her frozen skin

It filters through fissures of my being
not as embers but as roots entwined like fate
rusted iron veins coursing through weary bones—
the phantom of a forest petrified turned to stone
still thrumming with life in its ancient core

Over fields of harvested oats...

November's Boreas' breath kisses
    a lacerating caress 
        lashes 
            against my lips
its chill 
    a nipping sting from hidden gadflies
I lean 
    into the bitter bite
letting its 
    icy nail carving my flesh 
etching lines 
    of hard-earned wisdom—
stirring   awakening   a muted comprehension within

In the somber solemn death of this season 
I discover a surge—my own— 
melding into the rhythm of things decaying 
reborn with each breath I draw

Over fields of harvested corn...

I walk through November's quietude 
unafraid of encroaching dark 
but welcoming the bite of cold it brings 

In this chill where slumbering earth lies still 
there is beauty not in life's fleeting frantic dance 
but in that heavy stillness that follows 

In this season's fading breath 
I uncover my tender truth: 
what falls does not perish or simply fade away— 
it lingers reshaped in quiet waiting for release

Over fields of harvested hay...

And as I stand wrapped in November's shadow 
I let it press against and into me— 
not as an ending 
but as a soft feathery bold beginning

For in the tranquil quiet of this night 
I am not Prometheus' spent ember 
but Hephaestus' hidden ore buried deep 
beneath Khione's frost— 
a vein carrying Sylvan secrets of ancient earth 
unyielding and alive 
raw with desire 
awaiting yes praying for the thaw

for a harvest still in unseen glory 
             among fields of quiet promise......
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