radiating glorious, Mother Moon spoke to me,

she spoke of a faith, where old flowers should be,

before the brisk of cold, and the crackle of leaves,

for everyone knows, late year winds are such thieves,

and creeping while sleeping, are the whitest of snows,

fast embracing the paths, where the green life all grows

best of all, warming light, from a December's full moon,

that reveals birds in flight, that some warn us shall ruin,

those landscapes once lush, now all but empty and dead,

when wise birds fly south, to warm winters instead,

and long bones of the trees, dare to laugh at the frost,

even though piece by piece, their fine leaves are now lost

skeleton trees wave their arms, to the highest of stars,

proud and strong, hanging down, from the edge of red Mars,

Mother Moon, hear their call, upon night's purple sky,

Mother Moon, watch upon them with your powerful eye,

remind them again, that it is from your bright glow,

that the curve of their weakness and dark shadows do show

there's a bit of green left, Mother Moon, it is true ,

about to escape, until breezy spring is renewed,

rested and settled down, from autumn's pink haze,

into the promise of what comes, in the passing of days