Winter comes.
Somehow it shows in the sunset.
sol is dimmer than before,
As though dying like the Oak King.
Winter comes.
The winds cool the night,
Chill the morning,
To remind us that after life is death.
Winter comes.
The smell on the wind
sings of sleeping trees
and the bush babies curling up tightly.
Winter comes.
She presses her hard hands
Against the land
and all that breathes soon sleeps.
Winter comes.
We must wait now,
Wait for the breath of the Goddess
to warm us again.
Yes, winter comes.
We work in the Dark; we give what we have. Our Doubt is our passion- our passion is our task, and the rest is the madness of art. -Henry James
