10/19/2009 § Leave a comment
The last of few maybe a little more, winters reach is extending.
The valleys are on the change, the Locus y’even its early warning.
Oxidized red and yellows bright, a death they are futilely defending.
The Sun’s tilted on its heels ,the pitch is the sign of seasoning.
Closer yet cooler that itself worth poundering.
Soon , the thick ice to greet our morning sills ,wind bitter and unforgiving.
Gaia has grown bored of her view, the winters grave is surely impending.