Wintering soul


The Autumn creeps inside my soul,
casts shadowed, branching shapes,
the mind stripped slowly, leaf by leaf;
with dying thoughts replaced.

The trunk of Self is rooted deep,
within earth’s chilling arms,
and brightness bears a blackened edge
as Winter makes its mark.

Like leaves the memories are called,
from greater heights to fall,
upon the base and settled place;
their life, so soon withdrawn.

The soul has found a wintering world,
where it must spend its days,
until the living sap is drawn,
to bring it forth again.

About rosross

Editor, writer, poet.
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