Night into pale morning thins,
autumn at the open gates of winter
stands; wind sways the bare
branches, whisper
carried in the chill breeze
coming coming coming.
The harvest of the summer months
lies wet and withered on the ground.
One such morning soon
will find the land briefly white,
snowflakes fallen in the dark;
this dawn mere
brown puddles reflecting
the clouds that hid the cold stars
and hide the cold Sun,
and the chill wind
bare branches swaying
still whispers
coming coming coming
as pale morning
dim day becomes.
28.10.2026
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