Thanksgiving of the Fae

 Under a velvet autumn sky,

where stars like seeds are sown,
the satyrs tune their willow pipes
and call the tired home.

The fields are brushed in copper light,
the last leaves drift and sway,
and every heart—beast, fae, and man—
comes softly in from day.

A cornucopia spills its dreams,
fruit and bread and gold,
grapes that taste of summer rain,
nuts to fend off cold.
Rabbits bow their gentle heads,
foxes sit in peace,
even the wary midnight wolves
let all their growling cease.

The satyrs dance on cloven feet,
soft hooves in fallen leaves,
their laughter curls like chimney smoke,
like music through the eaves.
A child curls close to lion’s mane,
a sparrow sleeps on horn,
and every soul that once was afraid
feels just a little more warm.

The elders lift their cups of cider,
the young ones lift their eyes;
somewhere in the quiet dark
a distant owl replies.
They thank the days that fed their joy,
the nights that held their tears,
the lessons carved in tender hearts
across the turning years.

A satyr sets his pipe aside
and kneels beside the flame.
He whispers, “Harder days will come—
they always do, the same.
When snow erases all your paths,
when shadows stretch and bend,
remember how we shared this bread,
remember hand and friend.”

The cornucopia, almost bare,
still holds a single pear—
enough to say that even now
there’s more than frost and air.
For gratitude’s a secret door
that opens in the chest,
and even when the cupboards thin
it lets the weary rest.

So close your eyes, my drowsy one,
the stars keep gentle guard;
the pumpkin fields and forest paths
will sleep through nights grown hard.
For though the winter winds may rise
and roam the dark unknown,
the quiet light of all we’ve shared
will lead us safely home.