The autumn grieves in muted colours
of life in warmth, stuck in twilight's hold.
Wolves stay away from the edges of the city
and howl in the cold.
It was spring the last time I felt real,
and now it has been half a year moving in phases, through to tomorrow.
I love the autumn, the fall of summer's empire,
the way I can be cold without trying, only warm if I want to.
All the hype about mittens and toques and sweaters gives overrated expectations,
because a short while ago autumn was the death of life, and winter its mourning
because nothing grows.
Is life seasonal? No, its always,
and I will always love you,
love the little ways you live.
The hermit in me is tired and malnourished and I am grieving for memories that feel too good.
Because life is swell.

sisters so akin like skin and bone,
thoughts aligned,
words not shared
but known
arms that feel like home

love that never walks alone

The beast, in solitude, who roams these woods,
of wisdom only he is led to know,
he wears a crown so heavy on his head,
and walks through autumn, summer, spring, and snow.

He is not seen, but wearily, is feared -
a figure hiding deeper in the minds,
the hunters and the people keep away,
although the beast is difficult to find.

On stilts, he wades and crosses riverbeds
a mind so keen, remembering the way.
The burden of his crown does not weigh him,
the wind invites him to a gentle sway.

So many moons have passed the monster's eyes -
he knows how rivers come to meet the lake;
So when the hunter settles down to aim,
the moose is still, and it is no mistake.

Be a song that brings deep joy to the soul, not just a verse that skims over it like a misplaced note.