Brushes Of Fire
The dog days of summer bring humid air,
that morphs into dewdrops, as the night cools.
And summer swimsuits aren't seen anywhere:
because the kids have returned to their schools;
abandoning their sandcastles and pools.
The leaves are slowly being drained of green,
changing color as they prepare to die.
And the cottage windows don't need a screen
when the sun sits low in the Autumn's sky
for there's no mosquitoes; just the odd fly.
Nature paints the leaves with brushes of fire,
while moonbeams gild cerise edges in gold.
For Nature is an artist to admire:
with a Fall palette that's subtle and bold;
Her art is a masterpiece to behold.
Exhaling a breath of air, crisp and cool,
with a sweet, spicy scent that defines Fall;
Autumn pulls a thread from Memory's spool.
It is time for Jack Frost's infamous scrawl,
welcoming Winter in her snow-white shawl.
Brisk breezes rattle bare branches and twigs,
as a forest of skeletons quivers.
A squirrel stashes nuts in holes it digs:
for the cold starts to give it the shivers,
aware of the wrath Winter delivers.
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