With the eloquence of golden tongue
Autumn burns;
licking with its flame,
burnishing with its breeze.
The fringes of trees
touch the Midas robe
of the changing season.
And Winter, soft in manger dream,
waits offstage, pregnant
with Christmas.
The nursery decoration is in its infancy
but will not greet the child.
Only with its false finery
laid bare like winter trees
will He come
bringing the adornment
of His presence.
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