Moon at Half Past Noon

It is not in the shout, but in the slow release,
The maple’s crimson confession to the waiting air.
It is the steadfast oak, in gilded, silent peace,
Holding the light a moment longer, just to prove it cares.

The wind composes letters on the forest floor,
A rustling scripture, intimate and deep.
Where one vine clings, and through the frost burns more,
A promise to the stone it has been sworn to keep.

The field, a braid of umber, gold, and grain,
Bends to the whisper of the subdued sun.
A final, brilliant effort to ease the coming rain,
A testament to battles fervently won.

The scent of woodsmoke, like a whispered, ancient sigh,
Curls through the branches, bare and black as lace.
It is the patient earth, no longer asking why,
But opening its arms to a cold and star-strewn space.

So let this love be autumn-hued and vast,
Not flash and fire, but a deep and smoldering glow.
A bond that, even as it’s yielded to the past,
Finds roots beneath the coming snow.