by Jan “Skylark” Avende
Chill October breezes wind about me.
Around my ankles the crisp, cold air swirls.
Away from my lips my frosty breath curls.
Orange, red, yellow leaves fall from browning trees.
Eddies of wind go where ever they please.
Down out of the branches an acorn hurls,
Knocked from the paws of two chattering squirrels.
They dash ’round the tree as fast as can be.
Yet too soon, snow will come and food be gone.
Now is the time to harvest the crops,
If only in vain hope that food will last.
The drifts of snow shall glow with mourning’s dawn
As the icicles into their beds flop.
We pray for Persephone’s reign to pass.
