In this poem, I tried to crystallize the feeling of magic I had towards Halloween as a child.
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The sweet-sour scent of waning hay
drifts to town from nearby fields,
pleasing all walkers with an edgy peace.
While autumn gusts enliven shadows,
the wavering moon turns sheets to ghosts,
and disguises reveal diverse fancies.
The mind evokes bewitching specters
cavorting like bats on their nightly hunts,
quickening the pace of parent and child.
Spooky music beckons from porches,
conjuring up faux frights and terrors,
as diffuse mysteries tug at innocence.
Copyright © Carol Mays | Year Posted 2015