in the dull palette of autumn's embrace
the sun turns away sooner each night.
the Zaphar snakes low and dark,
curling to the grey gnarl of trees
grasping at a horizon smothered
by onset of cobalt and pitch.

in a Village courtyard,
the promise of winter stirs russet leaves
to dance, to settle, with the dust.
the Cycle turns in grasses dry and frail,
in the creak of an old bridge,
in the absence of fireflies.

and yet, it is now that our laughter spills
an orange radius from every window,
swelling foliage into fiery hues
as it bursts from the Inn's open door.

in the sudden humid warmth of speech,
the musk of spilled ale and shed coats,
Amerante's tequila winds its golden river
'round the dancers atwirl in the dirt,
the young captain reeking of the sea,
the novice counting sovereigns for stew,
warriors leaning in to whisper,
lovers who say it all with their eyes.

when autumn wind wraps the forest
and the trees creak skeletal and grey,
the dying man sees his own hand
grasping, gnarled, in the dark.

but the living bring their harvest to the cellar,
draw seed from chaff by candlelight
and fill barrel after barrel after barrel
with situational ironies,
with defiant happy endings,
with puns, bad jokes, and other mortal nonsense,
with the will to put out leaves again come spring.

Penned by my hand on the 18th of Aeguary, in the year 945 AF.