Late November

LATE NOVEMBER Now a season for desolate ambers to quilt worn pastures as harsh north wind songs scold lonely Sycamore boughs, Whose ghostly silhouettes beckon endless horizons arching gaunt fingers to one lonely but swaying colding sky, Heavy grey-misted clouds threaten a promise of yet to be, I see withered grasses embrace worn tangled corn skeletons to toss to dance silent whispers upon an earth, carpeted so void, so barren, All awaiting shrouds of hoarfrost soon sprinkled to their bosom, This dismal stage defied by stark whiting birches astep soft firs, there and there, But beyond nothing, but nothing stirs save some eternal vow of golden days that will yet -NO ! must… to be, But now of my dearest of mine children repose 'tis your time only, Only, that thee must slumber.