The haunt of autumn seems so close to home

that whisky ghosts of dying summer breeze

now tickle heat and steal away with cold

and, playful, bear their laughter through the trees.

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It seems a world more sharper than the light

opens up amid the falling leaves—

a sound like crunch! And snapping crunkled twigs

that echo lasting noises through the trees.

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The breath of wind that comes from other worlds

and almost seems to torture with its tease,

now softly stokes the fire of our souls

and bears our new found faith up through the trees.

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