“Fall’s Funeral”

and I knew

winter was in store

for every rustic brown,

orange and green leaf
on every road

that lassoed October

for his last threads of autumn,

when black clouds flush the fully-lit-stone

and fangs soar the chilly midnight air

    cackling

          and 

             screeching

the last breath the scarecrows will exhale,

and the trademark-V possesses the moon

and paves south to hide from frozen return,  

when pumpkins wrinkle tea-light for children

and bon-fires crawl back inside chimneys

as the sky unravels behind de-tasseled corn,

and the depressed sun sleeps longer than usual

during her blanketed hibernation

while the grass awakes frostbittenly reborn

and mother nature bares herself to the world naked.