Fields lie fallow
Weary old men with frosted whiskers
Settling in for the long nap
Forests robbed of gold and rubies
Stand forlorn, wringing their limbs
And the spruces sigh, there, there
The river’s eye is swollen
Knocked about by a north wind
Muddied and oozing over its banks
But hush,
The battle for the season is almost won
And winter will come with her blankets and gauze
Come with her command to lie still and rest
All will be healed
~lg
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