The cold is creeping in,
careening with a northern wind.
The earth is a naked canvas,
a blank slate.
The leaves beginning to change is the catalyst.
The sun is setting earlier and giving into the moon and all her might.
The squirrels and wind shake the trees.
The earth quakes and all becomes bare.
Still, the trees stang against the wind,
standing tall in their resolve.
But the cold can be crippling,
tenaciously gripping my ankles
and dousing out my tiny flame.
I’m not ready for the dark days
and longer nights.
The cold is creeping in,
fog and frost misting my windows.
Jackets are back in style
and I’m not ready.
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