The voice of God has stripped the forests bare
Quietly, but all at once
Whirls of brown-orange across a suddenly pastel blue sky
A curtain closed by a man hanging on its long rope
As the year comes swiftly to its end

I drove under a blushing sky,
Oil strokes glazed over with watercolors
The sun drowsing its way under the edge of the earth

Fields of green lie fallow
The golden wheat lies piled in its house
While endless stretches of barren earth prepare to hibernate
        —to wait, with held breath, for the long-in-coming green of spring
        —that verdant maiden, she tarries like the sun before a summer dawn
        —her veil of dreary days and white water-lace donned in preparation

Creaking, groaning arms strain under the weight of a pale sky
And hope for rebirth

And so do I

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