by MFrost Delaney

The end of fall comes on so dank, so gray.
The leaves have turned to brown and dropped. They crisp
and crinkle underfoot, and whisk away
with rakes or winds in gales. At times a wisp
of still creeps in between the trees so stark,
their naked branches praying for reprieve
from cold, from early sunsets bringing dark.
When hope is lost that autumn will relieve
the gloom, it brings a frosted morning dew
that sparkles in some thirty-two degrees.
It covers browning lawn and just a few
of upper tree limbs with a pre-snow freeze,
reminder of the beauty to come soon—
a snowscape’s gleam beneath a winter moon.


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