a poem by Renee "Kindrianna" Booke
The sun breaks over Calandia’s mountains,
Singing hail to the leaves of autumn’s crown.
A forest thrives in hues of gold and amber,
Frigid breezes dance in flowered gown.
Elven poets lift their pens,
While quoting colors of the morn’.
Bards drip honey from their lips,
And pour cider from their horns.
Nostalgia sprinkled over apple,
Sweetens homeward siren’s songs;
For battle-hardened, wayward heroes,
Sent abroad to right life’s wrongs.
Their spirits haunt in meadows yonder,
Yearning for the hearth of home.
Adventure keeps them from returning,
Barred by forest and sea’s white foam.
Pumpkins line our fields and halls,
Awaiting bellies and warm pies.
Soon comes the Cold Moon of December,
And the hour ‘pon which Raven flies.
The only treasures of true worth,
Are the ones we cannot hold.
The empty chairs that line our tables,
Speak more of family than of gold.
