One time I tried to write a poem about Nature and it became the perspective of Autumn who even am I

My gilded light shines down over the fields

Fenced in by blackened shrubs

And trees that reach the sky

It is her harvest.

Come, now, to cull and collect

Whack the wheat and break off the bracken

Pick up the pieces of plant

And follow me down to the fields.

Rapeseed is glowing yellow there

Burnt amber shades the trees

It’s getting colder and darker now

But light still shines at 13.

She reaps the reward of my work.

Moss covered branches

Shade the dappled lanes

Flitting through the trembling leaves

Glimmering lights dart.

The hour has reached 15 now

And the lights are growing tired

Still they dapple the lanes

But in smaller bunches.

Can lights grow weary?

It appears so;

The leaves are moving less and less

And a chill wraps itself around my shoulders.

No more do the glimmers

Tangle themselves in my hair and the flowers

They have stopped their movements.

20 hours now.

Those old lights have disappeared.

New ones are coming.

They light the dark expanse

The abyss brightens.

Twinkling in their dull abode

They brighten the sky

And reflect in my tired eyes.

I feel the lights take away my glow

For a hundred years I will sleep

(or at least it will feel that way)

And flora and fauna shall sleep with me.

They become drowsy

Without me there to warm their hides

My sister comes to care for them

Her crimson hair will shade them

And prepare them for the cold.

She will direct them to the proper burrows

And they will sleep, too.

She comes to take my crown.

This is my last day here.

I don’t want to see myself fade

But I must watch, must linger until my final day.

My sleep is upon me.

The hour is 12 again.

She is here.


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