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.