Dipped in hyperbolic ink,
the mighty thunder of words thrums across bitter parchment;
crisp, rustling leaves are caught up in chaotic wind.
Nestled within the seven vales,
our hearts descend among the stones
that would keep us from traversing this path
if we forget to merely rise.
Autumn's hues are strewn swiftly across the landscape,
garrulous with somber tones of caution,
advising preparation for the arriving chill that would stiffen pale bones
and slow pulsation.
Do we heed these warnings
or forge assuredly into Winter's maw,
unafraid?
We pursue this sagacious sojourn
as though immortal,
suspecting we are not -
a private madness deeply discerned.
Arrogance tucked into rifled pockets,
we perceive humility as the proper course to follow,
our eyes blurred by drifting snow
as we gather fallen wood for the dusky hearth.
Gold trophy winner
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