November
An Arctic wind comes reaping the mild air,
breath hangs in clouds and grass hides under frost,
low morning sun soaks branches soon stripped bare,
boots wallow in the reds and golds now lost.
Chevrons of Geese head south for warmer climes,
ground creatures bedding down until the spring,
their instincts telling them it is the time
when nature's heartbeat slows, and no birds sing.
No kindness shown as autumn's laid to rest,
no mercy given, winter's blade unsheathed,
it's willing victim gladly bares it's breast
and falls, in pallid shades the land is wreathed.
Each year this drama plays, the rise and fall
consoled by distant promise, spring will call.
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