Sepia toned quilts coat the hardening ground.
A single ant ventures a rust colored maze.
Water beneath ice is trapped in the sky
And the frost-covered man brings shortening days.

Passersby break the Prairie Street’s silence.
One cricket’s trumpet, calls Twilight’s arrival
While Summertime’s subjects linger out of place
And the quilts converse about their new coming rival.

One thousand small guardians, surround their maker.
I stand among them, dressed to contrast
Seeing my mortality, viewed in comparison
While metamorphosis knows it won’t last.

But while the blankets, are still wet from rain
My olfactory senses speak of darkness and night
And of drier blankets, warm hearths and warm fires.
I know that the end is far from in sight.