“The Sickle Wind”

The sickle wind is cutting, cutting.
Sharpen the crescent moon for a tool!
Bring her down, cold Angel of Death,
For there are tender reeds for your glutting.

The soured-soft flowers are feeble in their wilt.
Old women stoop were once there stood
Proud maidens, flirting to be opened.
Surely these you can take without guilt?

The wrinkled leaves were on the run,
Flown like brown paper birds but alas!
Wingless fell, and lay in lifeless defeat.
A balder tree wakes to a colder sun.

The crickets’ song is ending, ending.
The serenade ends in requiem.
Dead are the words and the music,
As souls from bodies are rending, rending.

The wolves are running, a hungry pack
To pick the bones of a skeletal forest
While the trees hushed still as a funeral,
For the sun has died and all wore black!

*Author’s Note: Hello!  Today being November 1st, 2012, also “All Saint’s Day” as well as the “Day of the Dead”, I thought I’d start off this fine autumnal day with a poem I wrote about a year or two ago that I felt captured the feeling of the change of seasons, the “harvest”, and all things ending.  For what is Fall but that time of year when we tuck away our warmer weather clothes and prepare for some cold times ahead?

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