South-Central New York

With every year that passes by, louder do they sing.
Early winter swamps and sleeping branches mimicking.
The voice of autumn surrenders now to cold embrace,
Fickle passions whispering, circles made to trace.

Has a season passed again? What trickery unfold?
Is a sleep of tears and smoke the road to death if sold?
Forgive my twisted metaphor, it's simplicity I seek.
Gray skies stretching endlessly, beauty in the meek.

Turning once a moon cycle has its upsides you know?
At least that's what I tell myself, to survive the snow.
Leafless thorns a blessing if the blood is set to lead,
These valleys have crept into me, each tragedy a seed.

Can't escape the conifers, my dreams still smell like pine.
Monsters living under them are dangerous, but mine.
Haunted and so beautiful, the yellow of dead reeds.
Cold and stagnate water sure, but god lives where there's need.