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per amica silentia lunae

or, across the ferny brae with the evil voodoo celt

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Walking in November

Even on a mist-bound chill morning, light suffuses
My path. Incandescing above me, hidden morning
Sun, slanting low, makes a bright tunnel for my steps.
There is a secret here, swimming in the silence
Underlying the upwelling noise of the hurrying day.
Each color- leaf-flame, last brave flash of green
Along the grass, eyes in the faces passing by-
Is softened yet brightened in the pouring glow,
And it all swirls in to a whisper-soft message
Hanging in the smoke-scented, droplet-filled air:
Even in the downswing arc, the fading fall,
The pendulum rush of the receding year,
Light is not lost, but gathered in, waiting,
Pulsing in the hearths and homes, slumbering,
Softened, dimmed, but never fully gone.