Hollow quills feathered for flight.
Saint Sun bedding down;
jolly stories gently fade.
Sensations bright, darkening, harken
primal blood to quicken, thicken
for the coming frost.
The ghosts of bitter cold, biting ice,
twinkle in phantom eyes, remind
their time approaches.
Decades these have been welcome guests,
enlivening my humble home with
their splendid tales, thumping songs
of terrors and warmth.
Tonight my mind migrates, flies o’er
mountains, seas, duration.
I can find no welcome, no succoring forest
for restoration.
Trees busily preparing for their brilliant Fall parade
no longer thrill with charming fantasy.
Turned aged, with no comfort of ritual.
Jaded, tired of the jaunty march of seasonal change.
I yearn to take flight, take ease of numb habit,
to follow in flock formation at one with sky’s
natural flow.  Even though I know transit’s
summation promises no solace, no lift from
mired sorrow. 
Perhaps my wiser course is to glide aloft
in that soft lull between
yesterday and tomorrow.

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