When Winter came they

Had grown to love her.

Every passing day

The bloody leaves squinted and

Fell back to the soil.

They slept through the journey of the soul.

When it finally came back

The day had rolled away

Dead, like a memory.

A stone wind flew through the grass

Through the lungs, through the trees

Without a word, it clambered up the walls.

And here, silent

Through the red glass

They are dreaming Autumn.


Rich Thompson