the last of the october nights
end of harvest, fading lights
sun descending, rays in flight
here is darkness; gone is white
grasping fingers
the dead of winter
a bony, dwindling,
icy figure
the summer grieves
her cold frost sleeve
she sleeps, asweve,
on winter’s eve
the shadow grows
a frozen pose,
all warmth in throes,
engulfed in crows
and wintry plans,
they do conspire
deep within the cold quagmires
on this,
the festival of fire
the dark and bright,
they will divide
and from the other
they must hide
a maiden of the crown and thorn
must rest before she is reborn,
but winter will, himself, adorn
as warmth and light is now adjourned.
ellynn mayo 