Nipping at retreating heels,
the last hopes of summer's warmth,
were chased away by whistling winds.
Passing quietly into the darkening
night of the frost-tipped fall.
It's soft breath, cold and caressing.
Ever so lightly brushing across,
tender petals of sleeping wildflowers.

So as to not let them feel,
the chill of icy fingers,
before they awaken,
within dawn's early rays,
sparkling like glittering diamonds,
upon their fading blue, oblivious.

Waking blackbirds ruffle themselves,
shaking the remnants of dampness,
from glistening wing.
Perched precariously upon,
the gray weather-beaten branch
of a stately maple,
shimmering with its golden boughs,
obsessed with the color red.

Shay White
Copyright 2011