The rising of the autumn moon, the everclear gaze of the yearling's eyes
Waxing and waning, waiting for the last of Summer to die.
A wizened cry echoes from the old tree near the bend,
Another season, comes to an end.
Her face is full and fair now, and she smiles upon her son,
His strength is her radiance, but the time has almost come.
Greyness overtakes the sky, as the sun's fire glazes the trees.
She calls to all her little ones, from the beasts to the bees.
She tells them to prepare to rest, as she must go for the nigh,
As she whispers in their ears, the wind begins to sigh.
Not a lullaby, or a cradle song, but a dirge to and from the night,
She drifts off to sleep, knowing her son is in his might.
