October eve.

 

Beneath an onyx sky and a moon
wreathed in lunar fire,
Lies a hibernating wood
where we gather for the pyre.
And the leaves that crackle underfoot
remind me of the flames
and their wanton iridescence
upon the corpses that they claim.
Beneath a field of stars
and wraithlike wisps of cloud,
Nature sings to me an opera of sound.
And the mists upon the breeze
can ease the weariest of hearts,
as sure as the rains will bring dew
to the desolate and parched.