A Cold Hymn Sung Silent

Leaving fleeting footprints

on flattened grass

we arrive at the precious precipice, and peer into

the narthex of the tabernacle of trees

Where philosophy folds in on itself

its questions swirl among falling leaves,

then drop, unanswered to the fertile forest floor

composting into fragments - glimpses of notions

that brush our fingertips, but remain out of reach,

their nascence in repose.

Our footfalls alight on these timeless catacombs

tinged with the reds and oranges of

early autumn's flamestruck floor.

Hands knotted, we traverse roots and rocks

the cold November air

sifting through our fingers

it mingles with the musings

of timber minstrels. They too,

listen for the sound of first frost as

they dance along wrinkled oak branches.

The symphony of cawing crows

in the purple pre-dawn light

echoes an idea of what is possible.

But the forest is still striped and green-gilt,

unwilling to cede its rusting secrets.

So we share a whispered promise to return

When the wind is more limber, and

the sound of first frost is ready to be heard.

So we wait.

And return when the fields are tilled.

In the swollen darkness before late autumn dawn,

once more, we stand at the precipice,

the wind wraps around us,

drawing us closer to each other.

Slivers of cold air evolve into shards,

slicing the warm, slow breath of early autumn

into whipped up whorls of anticipation.

The voices we hear,

the screaming fox,

the grunting buck,

These are the cradles that swaddle

the sound of first frost.

They are cries in the wilderness,

preparing the way, but are we ready for the ritual?

The stone-scented air

bears witness to our weakness

we lower our heads, humbled and supplicant as

the gray and white of autumnal dawn

plunge through growing gaps in the forest canopy,

wistful kisses blossom on the browned ground.

the early autumn flames of red, yellow, orange,

now doused with russet, pastoral grace.

A sparrow's wings shudder as it

settles into its nest, attentive as

the forest is ready to sing its primordial poem

in solemn stanzas among the old wooden pillars.

Now, where no leaves take hold, the softened sunlight

shines upon the altar of the sylvan church and shows us

the starburst embroidery of white,

woven into the cracked, browned edges of leaves.

It is the first frost.

With our eyes closed and

our notions still

just out of reach,

we hear the first frost offer up its sacred sound -

a cold hymn sung silent.