The Days Grow Shorter
The days grow shorter on the spindle
of North winds crispy, frosted breath
and winter patches white o'er brindle
where autumn's bow has left her flesh.
The hours dwindle brushed by twilight's broom
that paints the dark revealing moontide’s dawn
and icy moonshine drips from lunar looms
to drape the earth in robes of pearl chiffon.
As wispy respirations string through air
the year moves steadily through its last quarter.
The white washed atmosphere seems cold and bare
as this year dwindles and the days grow shorter.
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