The World of Myth Magazine

Dry bones clatter and the cold wind blows.
Leaves, dried and brittle, skitter across the toe of my shoe.
It is a time for death, a time for dying.
A time for those who have gone before
To walk among those that remain.
The dark time is upon us, but if we stop,
Be still, and listen,
The love of those who have gone before
Will whisper through the branches of the fast-asleep tree.
Life will pulse and dance in the breath of the cold,
And the promise of dry bones and brittle leaves
Will warm us until Spring

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