The snow level is dropping,
threatening to swoop down to the ground.
The biting air today feels like snow.
Hats, gloves, scarves are coming out of storage.
Life has moved indoors for a while.
Every season does this little tease.
She runs on stage and waves to us,
we point and titter and giggle,
and then she quickly scampers behind the curtains
until her appointed appearance in the act.
That’s a good thing.
Because autumn is my favorite season.
I’m not quite ready for her to take her leaf.
~ ~ ~
The seasons alter: hoary-headed frosts
Fall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose;
Shakespeare in A Midsummer Night’s Dream