| A Cycle
by April Thompson
The scattered rays are golden, warm, yet weak,
A proud attempt to stall such candid loss,
They play with shadows games of hide and seek.
The enemy advances, bears a cross,
A royal pageant, host of vibrant hues,
Of topaz, nutmeg, crimson changing fast.
And ever-fragranced breath delivers news
Of spicy, harvest magic, omen cast,
A whisper to secede rich heat and light
To frosty, bitter gales mocking cloak,
And silver, silent daggers bring dark night,
To rob earth's life, conveying death's strong yoke.
Yet with the passing prosper do we know,
Another birth, a bud, awaits to grow.
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