Long months stretch out,
close to the cold earth
as all things begin to turn within themselves
shedding first their flowers
then their green
then their leaves
as withering things lie across the landscape.
The once rich earth grows hard
and scentless,
as it waits for the bitter cleansing of snow.
Winter will come
to lay a soft cover
over all the dead things,
muffling their calls
to those who can hear
such things.
Inside, the crackle of fire
serves as a reminder
that all is eventually consumed,
from bracken to barrel,
with inappropriate cheer.
Even the creaking of chairs
is a whisper of the fragility
of everything.
Outside above the fire smoke rising
and dead leaves buried
one star brightly reflects on the snow
as if to say,
‘all things change but us.’
So brilliant
that even the clouds
cannot dim its touch,
like a kiss blown from a window,
which is felt
five stories below.