The Long Rest

The old, sweet scent of decay

thins in the cold.

Those familiar golds and reds

how they soften now,

their edges feathered with frost,

each leaf holding a scattering

of crystalline starlight.

-

And my own breath

I see it at last,

a pale offering

rising from my mouth,

a small white animal

lifting into the chill

to join that drifting congregation

we all breathe from,

again and again.

-

The wind no longer carries

the soft hush of boots

in restless leaves.

The grass stands silent,

stunned into stillness,

each blade pinned in place

by the early hand of winter.

-

Even the animals

feel the turning.

They fold themselves

into burrow or bark,

curling into sleep.

Part of me

longs to follow.

-

A single birdsong rings out

a bell in the widening quiet.

The world holds its breath,

waiting for snow’s gentle descent

those slow, rolling blankets

that glint like shy stars

in the last honeyed light.

-

And when they come,

falling, falling

it will be as though

the sky itself has leaned down

to cover us,

tucking the earth

into a long, shimmering rest.