Brushes of Fire
Dogs pant in the sweltering, humid air
that morphs into dewdrops as the night cools.
And summer swimwear isn't seen anywhere,
now that the kids have returned to their schools,
abandoning their sandcastles and pools.
The leaves are slowly getting drained of green,
changing color as they prepare to die.
And cottage doors no longer need a screen,
for now, as the sun sits low in the sky;
there's no mosquito, not even a fly.
Sunlight paints the leaves with brushes of fire;
and 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 will soon be time for Jack Frost's first scrawl,
welcoming Winter in Her snow-white shawl.
Brisk breezes rattle the bare bone-like twigs;
and a forest of skeletons quiver.
A squirrel stashes nuts in holes; it digs;
fearing the worst Winter will deliver,
for it's cold enough to make it shiver.
Copyright © Emile Pinet | Year Posted 2018
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