Beneath the crimson tide resides a whirling ball of fire
Inspired by those we cannot see nor hear, though dear and near
with passion. Quagmire of silt wilt your feisty mood expire
or thrust and rear to tear away from winter’s frosty bier?
With turn of season there lies reason for the cause of change ~
Etude composed of icy blue with canticle imbued;
Ho Hum! Ho Hum! the seed is done; the moose now freely range
From rusty golds to rims of russet, lichens misconstrued.
The aspen glen burned off her speckles, ferns still linger green
While crackling leaves inside their sheaths expound on temper’s curl
From distant trees woodpeckers peck they’re heard but seldom seen
As earth turns hard with tempered shard, cold blustry winds shall hurl.
With acorns buried deep below, they’re roasting in desire
Beneath the crimson tide resides, earth’s whirring ball of fire.