I take for him the auburn leaves
basking in premature mists of December,
yet there is still much to be learned
from the murmurs that dawn hath sent.
I thought myself golden only for a moment
and then the sun eclipsed my shadow,
metaphysical branches dub their voice
over harvested sorrow upon the grain.
Fields of serenity taunt my window frame
as I am called to serve and release song
unto the last surviving blossoms.
