Mists of autumn, flowing slowly,
Enveloping, shrouding, blanketing.
Frosts sparkling, crinkly leaves dusted with jewels.
Cold. Permeating, penetrating.
She slows, settles, and withdraws.
She sleeps.
Wandering in her dreams amidst the souls of men.
There are those who would listen,
Stand still and listen, feel her voice.


Nights lengthen.
She ceases to move, lying entombed.
Inanimate and cold she rests and waits,
Sleeping. Gently breathing, she is still here.
Cold rains fall, icy winds blow.
Dispersing, diluting, recycling,
Cleansing her body, healing, renewing.
She does not lie idle.


Nothing lies idle.
Hands are busy.
Digging, cutting, grinding her bones, burning her flesh.
Ceaselessly.
But She knows them, knows them well.


The old king is waning, but
The eternal battle must be fought and won.
She watches in her dreams.
Here he is, reborn, vigorous, strong,
The crown of Oak upon his head.
She smiles.
Slowly and sweetly, memories flooding.
She stirs and turns.
She has slept well, she is renewed,
New life will awaken.
She shakes off the shroud,
Life pulsating through her veins,
She wakes and walks,
The warm sun playing on her skin.