The brown wash of Autumn hides

the Winter as it coldly bides,

frank and simple and moist and warm,

wearing the forest to a vow of silence

While leaves crunch running from the growing swarm

of tiny buzzing fleeting things,

O, let us find the honey she brings

in the wooden carriage while we camp our tents,

for those who yearn for solitude

find redemption in rot and decrepitude

like a bird pulls apart her home to make home,

they find the glowing hollow spaces

and amid the froths of peat and loam

they drop their knapsacks on the ground

and articulate themselves without a sound,

long parted from the prying faces.