.

Aloft they rise, mute torches in their flame-orange hour,

Lining the silent corridors of pastured power;

Strewing their leaves with practiced hand and calmer mien

Than we who watch with tears unshed, with grief unseen,

As Ceres’ touch along the golden ranks of corn

One last time, then sighs and casts her mother’s gaze forlorn

Down despairing into Winter’s bitter harvest-clutch. 

Is there to be redemption from a reaping such

That Beauty is the vestal virgin led away

To satisfy the gnawing spirit of the age 

And slake the destroying-angel’s deadly thirst for warmth?

We lift our faces, stricken, to the rising North.

But etched upon its arctic fury, we see writ:

“I will not forsake you.” And a spark of Hope is lit.

.

Jeremy Vogan, Autumn 2022

Photo credit: wallpaperscraft.Com