1. Nov, 2019


Only the crow stays now--

a faithful jester

cutting the grey air

with its cry.

Apples, red and green, hang

on the branches

like suspended Autumn thoughts --


I gather red leaves

and decorate my desk.

I light a candle and wait

for the voices of my ancestors

to run through my veins,

to shake and rattle my bones

like music,

to whisper softly in my ears.

By now the mist has lifted

and the air is still.

White houses with red roofs

dot the hillside, half asleep.

Today, the land lies flat

and meek. Stillness is

its language, but for 

its hidden spells.

Magic is afoot, if you

only listen.


Photo by julie aagaard from Pexels