Do not forget me when autumn's
Days arrive with the air's crisp kiss,
And the swollen grain demands
That it be reaped and gathered only
To be scattered yet again as the cosmic
Cycle repeats an ancient pattern
And sings silently its strange
Familiar refrain, beckoning all who
Hear to attend the harvest festival
In the church of light before the
Kiss turns icy and no worshipers,
No revelers remain.