Burn Brightest
The candles of the forest brightly lit
to bid adieu the solstice harvest moon
that races through the branches where it fits
much like the sun which flickers there at noon.
Across the rolling hills now tinged with frost
and through the valley fog that drifts in sleep
a whisper of the season is embossed
like crochet doilies tossed upon a sheet.
So peacefully it sings the last hurrah
that echoes through each cherished year that goes
- reflections of the past when last we saw
the answered prayers of peace as they arose.
Then naked Winter's chill will quickly rush,
but not before one final Autumn blush.
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