Cooler winds rattle
the drying leaves,
as the sleepy
birds and bees
tend to their winter needs.
Winter calls her flock home,
into the warmth of den,
dwelling, or foxhole,
and listens to each account
of the last year,
come and gone.
This is the time of the dead,
but they feel no sorrow,
because they see rebirth
blooming in the fields
of tomorrow’s
spring.
Bees hum, birds sing,
and Mother Winter’s gift
gives life,
through death,
and all of the dried leaves
that her coming brings.
©️ 2019.
