Boondocks Soul

Harvest moon,
Spoke too soon,
Sometimes this sadness
Could encircle
Vast treelines
In crimson lagoons.

I dreamt of the rest
While I slept on a boon.

Snow falls in my dreams
All year round;
Underneath,
A grey-bluish peat,
A muteness abounds.

Hoped for the best,
Received so much less,
I woke to a scent
I would describe
Neologistically
As nutmeggishness.

A northern moorhen cried;
The harvest also died.
I said I spoke too soon.

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