The scent of the night was crisp and fleeting,
the wind does bend an oak unlikely though;
its persistent blows without retreating,
will ultimately force the oak to bow.
The night's biting wind will keep repeating,
O'er an empty field with none to sow,
Grim like death waiting patiently pleading,
for any semblance of rural to show.
Lo! The oak is red and changing slowly,
Quite impossible for the blind to know.
A ring, luminous, like a pale nimbus,
Upon this field is an abandoned glow.
The sounds of darkness, the nighttime symphony
will always be my desired company.
-By Donavue
the wind does bend an oak unlikely though;
its persistent blows without retreating,
will ultimately force the oak to bow.
The night's biting wind will keep repeating,
O'er an empty field with none to sow,
Grim like death waiting patiently pleading,
for any semblance of rural to show.
Lo! The oak is red and changing slowly,
Quite impossible for the blind to know.
A ring, luminous, like a pale nimbus,
Upon this field is an abandoned glow.
The sounds of darkness, the nighttime symphony
will always be my desired company.
-By Donavue
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