Frost-furred lumber stacked by the roadside
waiting for hands and hammers and nails;
a slow-moving river bearded with white fog
winds by the south gate headed for home.
Winter falls softly in this part of heaven.
It creeps in on shoes that are silent as sleep.
The sky fills with grey clouds as birds huddle together
On a lamppost arm stretched out
by the side of the road.
Red leaves lie sleeping on the the floor of the forest,
crunching beneath footfalls as a man passes by.
The land settles down with a sigh for the winter,
like the last sleepy breath
of a day that is done.