Beyond the Equinox

The land sleeps,

furrowed, cold and still.

Each field edge mourns

in widow’s weeds.

The flocks keep silence

on the hill,

while nature weeps

tomorrow’s seeds.

Penitent

in golden cloak,

the woodland

whispers overhead

and through the mist,

like incense smoke,

sheds slow confetti

for her dead.

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