In the obscure voice
of wind turned breeze
limbs brush in finger-tip touch
as trees turn to thoughts
of winter.

Jack Frost air
invites twilight to make
an earlier arrival
to paint in shades of reverie,

I sit with memories
on an old porch swing
and listen to the absence
of crickets. Autumn
tinges earth with trust

and the joy
of a harvest in.
The work is done;
time now
for celebration.