(from the vaults)

This land is strangely barren, but intact
Autumn settles heavily here
Baroque for so brief an entr’acte
Before the winter’s cold, unyielding fact

All noses sniff the air this time of year
Some dreaming of life in warmer places
The wingbeat of an owl lends nothing the ear
A warning to those who love the less severe

Winter’s god has let fall traces
Of snow to lure the romantic weak
He knows he cannot fool the lesser races
Of beasts who’ve felt too hard his bitter stasis

A raven flies above the river, something in its beak
It has simply found what it had lacked
And summer’s dull green goddess, mild but far too meek
Gives finally what she can to those who seek


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