Ring out those solstice bells to mark the fading

of autumn’s dying embers into darkness,

where barren branches cease their masquerading,

 

to file forsaken in their silent starkness.

Where once were saplings, now tall trees stand sentry

to guard the wooded vale’s majestic fastness.

 

And so they spend their days, these forest gentry,

enduring winter’s cheerless months of malice,

till springtime makes its glorious re-entry.

 

Then autumn’s close brings forth the poisoned chalice,

a season ending right on nature’s schedule,

no dark agenda, nothing quite that callous.

 

We fall down some strange rabbit hole, like Alice.

when spring awakens like some borealis.