Ing.

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.

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