Changes

Unharvested black grape clusters  
Left on a scruffy vine  
No more  
Bees, neither wasps nor butterflies  
Not even hornets  
To suck the sugar juices  
From it’s drained grains  

The land of the grey  
Colors fade away  
Seasons shift  
Cold winds  
Chase away the living things  
Penetrate through doors, under sleeves  
To hide we must  
Our flowers  
Before the coming frost  
 
Preparing  
For a wedding  
Winter will take Autumn  
As his bride  
 
Red  
I’ll be wearing  
 
***  
In  
Warmth of the flames  
From the ingle fireplace  
Shrouded in blankets  
He’ll thrust his Scorpio tale  
In her wet ground  
And splendent, pale and tiny children  
With crystal eyes  
Soon will arrive  
Thousands of them  
 
Scent of a warm home will spread  
Around  
The smell of a tasty apple and pumpkin pies  
She’ll bake for her  
Little ones  
While they are playing  
Outside, behind the doorstep  
Happily  
A game without a sound