November

Long has the autumn wind
reaped the last leaves
from the boughs of the oak-tree
that stands on the hill.
All nature lies still,
the wind ceased its dancing,
the leaves lie unmoving,
frozen in death.
Holding its breath,
Waiting - awaiting:
As if time too had frozen;
Silent the lands lie.
At last, from the sky
a crystal, a flower,
the softest of snowflakes
falls down on the hill.
And yet, it is still.
Only the whisper
Of it and its brothers,
of snow on the ground.
In whispering sound,
The waiting is ended.
In time, dawn will come,
Grey dawn on white skies.
Asleep the land lies;
The hills and the trees
Are clothed now in white.
In winter they sleep.
And bid you
Good night.