That Thin Time

Things to do, other things to do...not to wish the world bad, nor give...where nothing's given back, just other things to do, now...other things to do, the watering's, the scratch...tuning of the instruments, gathering the winter's wood, the bailed hay, and dry...the wall against the wind, the thoughtfulness and care...to lives, not human...now, their time of need is here.

Weather turning cold, harvest in the barn...cover all the cracks, batten down the decks...lash the lines and tack, keep away the wet...stoke the coals of comfort on the grate, prepare the cinnamon and cider, 'gainst the bitter dark, trim wicks of oil lamps...kick back, a song or two upon old strings...still know the words of ancient things, spell's of smells from yesteryear, as kittens scamp about the floor.

Dogs wet noses, beg and gnaw...that favorite knuckle bone, of all...brought in, from out of doors to while the time away, aside the fire...the howl, the whistle of the wind about the eves before the Halloween, that thin time, that we dread and yearn, and bar the door...to what's to come, yet all the same...it come, and nothing can be done for that, but wish the best and pray, a 'write' by candle light, a read upon the bed...and sleep, away the winter's night.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: freeyork.org, Harvest Storm