November

source

We live on borrowed time

Now we must return

to our place of birth

The Earth beckons home

her wayward children

Leaves turn to soil

Gardens turn to seed

Ponds turn solid and impenetrable

November's breath 

petrifies as surely as Medusa's gaze

Summer maidens

shed their pale blossoms,

fruit into winter queens

Below the frozen ground,

they dream of innocence

and wait for the cleansing sun.

submitted for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, Get Listed-Good Neighbors