What is this Red Man's tale,
this Indian Summer dream.
Times when first frosts
have seized the moment
changing green, lush horizons
to golden hues of lost relevance...
publishing an Autumnal Renaissance,
a revival
of what will soon be only a warm whisper
surrounding our cocoons~
warm hearths,
warm memory faded,
we prepare for the long season
locked away from the dread,
winter's dry, certain death.
Oh, Indian Summer...
give me one last warm breath
one last ray
one last memory
before I sleep,
locked in silent, frigid beauty
of steely blue
and white
and grey...
winter.
