Many poets deliberate on the changing of the seasons. The raging, vibrant colours that confuse our rhyme with reason. We sing high praises of climbing leaves and the chill that licks the air that turn the breathing wind to screams
Why is there no mention of bare and ancient branches of grey barked sigels of long past tales and future snatches. Creaking dead fingers that slice autumn morns who forbade harsh tomorrows and painted the living to warmth.
Rough-faced sleeping guardians watch over their world of us who curse their passing. We hate when they're tired and rejoice as their born. Yet it's the poet's to blame who speaks only in colour. Love the harsh and the dull. Adore Earth and her Mother