There Will Be Moonbeams

There will be moonbeams tomorrow, and on them will ride the ghostly images of one last summer evening. Winter is roaring somewhere, here it is creeping under the hedgerow, catching groundhogs by surprise as they shuffle out into the flakes and frost. Yet tomorrow there will be one last showing of a much-rehearsed seasonal play, there will be long and narrow rays of sunshine, followed by itinerant magicians flimflamming see-through illusions. Ghosts will haunt a darkening sky, and they may sing sadly of all things that must bow before a last falling curtain of shedding leaves.