The beauty of the half-formed
Flickering like a candle’s drowsy flame
The orange setting sun
Kindling ragged leaves
To a red and gold fire
A slow, joyful immolation

The chill vagrant wind
Picking among the grasses
With grey and patient fingers
Gleaning the last warmth

of life from dying fields,
As that fell and holy Reaper
Listens for one last breath,

Then draws the soul sweetly
From between the parted lips.