a bit of doggerel: summer’s end

The cold wind comes, embracing.
The lover of frost
the harbinger of fall.
It hides beneath the old green leaves
waiting.
Skin prickles at its embrace
as the poplars shed their rags.
Herald of the yellow light,
the sun waning — like the moon
with the creak of wagon wheels
headed down the rutted road
westering as it melds
with the blue horizon

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About whitecatgrove

The musings of a Druid priestess, singer, poet and musician in Upstate New York.
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