Stillness in November

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......