Still the sound
Of raucous boys,
Cast your shadows
Round the noise.

Light the room
Flaming white;
Sing of Autumn’s
Golden flight
And days shortened
By the moon.

Trace the lines
In silver, stone.
Assure my thoughts;
Bring me home.

Race the winter,
Count the days,
Ashes, embers
Filtered rays;
And December
At my door.

The hour is late
Lights burned-low.
I close the gate;
I cross the snow.

The flock is safe,
I catch my breath;
I crawl in bed
For all that’s left:
One last spark,
I close my eyes,
Turn on my side
– The fire dies.