Can you hear him
mumbling
tumbling
down to earth?
Riding on a gentle wind,
he whispers by,
catching up my hair
in a dance only he knows.
He holds me close,
surrounding me
in the spicy-mild,
wet-dry, dead-leaf smell
of him.
A kiss and I taste
Halloween, jack-o-lantern
smokiness
on his breath.
And then he's gone,
his steed now carrying
a harsh new master.
A cold, old man
called winter.
this is one of the first things I ever wrote. it is ancient. But it fits.
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