November Till the Mantis Flies Away

An undercurrent whisper in the wind

in model harmonies tells of magic,

witchcraft boiling somewhere in the oak

and cypress forest; and the fumes of spells

long aging in the wood will wisp and wander

in the breeze. The leaves turn yellow as

the magic passes smooth among them. Sooth!

Say sooth, my friend, and laugh into the witch-wind!

or its breath will waft the autumn into you.

November till the magic will be through,

November till the mantis flies away,

and snow will stop the fires, stop the fires.