Brushes Of Fire
The dog days of summer bring humid air,
that morphs into dewdrops, as the night cools.
And summer outfits aren't seen anywhere
now that the kids have returned to their schools;
abandoning their sandcastles and pools.
The leaves are slowly being drained of green,
changing colors as they prepare to die.
And cottages no longer need a screen;
for when the Fall sun sits low in the sky:
there's no mosquitoes, not even a fly.
Autumn paints the leaves with brushes of fire,
while moonbeams gild cerise edges in gold.
For Nature is an artist to admire:
with a palette that's both 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 first icy scrawl,
to welcome Winter in Her snow-white shawl.
Brisk breezes rattle bare branches and twigs,
while a forest of skeletons quivers.
A squirrel stashes nuts in holes it digs:
fearing the snow that Winter delivers;
for it's enough to give it the shivers.
Copyright © Emile Pinet | Year Posted 2018
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