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.