As Autumn's Breeze

As Autumn’s breeze caresses the forest there is a mellow sadness to her movement, for fallen leaves beneath my feet crumble to flakes of brown, the tears of trees. Past midnight in morning’s quietest hours, just before the lids flicker from dawn's pale eyes, the dew stiffens to icy crystals, heavy enough to imitate a first thin snow; tender blooms crisp, then wilt, before the warming sun. Jack Frost, skating past the pumpkin harvest, blows upon his bony fingers, blizzard breath a rising cloud about his frigid face, eyes arched in gelid glee; he can return to his old haunts and habits, chasing little creatures into burrows and hollows. His glacial crackle coats the pond, a skim of ice like frozen laughter from a poor joke and winter is born anew. Copyright, August 21, 2016 Faye Lanham Gibson