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.