As leaves loose summer’s grasp
They become ghostly ballerinas of the still air,
Glistening,
On the annual pilgrimage to winter’s soft cradle.
.
Morning here lingers well into the afternoon
And shadows replace light
As the preferred method of telling time.
.
Soon, the first winds will stir,
And the old days will be back,
If just for a moment.
Shaken Rain 