'Tis the Season for Dying November 26, 2006 (Revised October 14, 2013)
How I marvel at these gray skies, billowed;
At how the ink dries upon His bull, per Pater,
Along the line, He meaning it to demarcate
Autumn's descent into the death of Winter's grip.
The leaves hath fallen, our air bereft of pollen;
'Tis no longer the site of "V's" flying our skies.
T'will be cold for many months and more,
Till Spring arises and the sandlots are full.
At how the ink dries upon His bull, per Pater,
Along the line, He meaning it to demarcate
Autumn's descent into the death of Winter's grip.
The leaves hath fallen, our air bereft of pollen;
'Tis no longer the site of "V's" flying our skies.
T'will be cold for many months and more,
Till Spring arises and the sandlots are full.
Down once lush grasses of Kentucky blue,
A chill is present; we commiserate her, too,
As she penetrates the conscience of our souls,
Forever ushering, she begets the impending snows.
Footprints are akin to the blood stain'd scarlet;
For there are no rabbits available for stew.
One thing I know: 'tis a cold man's dew,
There are no rhymes nor reasons to cry blue:
'Tis another season annuatim for a winter's night:
The calendars are to die in accord at darkest's night.
A chill is present; we commiserate her, too,
As she penetrates the conscience of our souls,
Forever ushering, she begets the impending snows.
Footprints are akin to the blood stain'd scarlet;
For there are no rabbits available for stew.
One thing I know: 'tis a cold man's dew,
There are no rhymes nor reasons to cry blue:
'Tis another season annuatim for a winter's night:
The calendars are to die in accord at darkest's night.
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