Autumn Air
A chill creeps in at morningtime,
the harbinger of winter climes,
and yet the crispness feels divine;
at least it does to me.
There’s a scent of moldering leaves,
they flutter down upon the breeze,
the earth below they all will feed;
how it is meant to be.
Then comes a whiff of new wood smoke,
no, not the kind that hippies toke,
a fire that warms like a cloak;
it kicks up the degrees.
Out for a walk, the scent of blood,
that’s coming from the neighbor, Doug,
the deer he hunted, now he cuts;
a winter’s worth of meat.
This raw whiskey, it smells so strong,
in liquor stores in don’t belong,
liquid apple pie can’t be wrong;
the autumn chill it beats.
Copyright © David Welch | Year Posted 2024
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