Silent morning—a fog like the ghost
Of autumn trees and brush and leaves
Rises up to the skies, a wavering host
Of spirits climbing to clouds, their winter post.
Farmers are nearly done gathering sheaves
And stalks stand like sentinels—grave stones—
Encumbered by rooks whose coarse song weaves
Harvest into winter, as Earth her life heaves
Into barns and bins. She creaks and groans
From the heavy toil of summer, spent,
To lie buried ‘neath snow as the wind moans,
Settled, silent; to Death her own life she loans.
Shrugging into the grave, all life lent
To fields and trees, creatures and men,
Surrendering to ice cracked, like garments rent,
Sighing to hear the wind’s bitter lament—
Earth sleeps. And though she will again
Awaken, resurrect, quiver then suspire,
For now she goes down with blissful “Amen!”
And spirits ascend from forests and fen
In eerie glints of argent fire,
Winging their way toward heaven
Like birdsong, bell-song from distant spire
In harvest chorus—a wild November choir.
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