She wraps the swiftly falling twilight about her,
the last ray of light slanting across her smile.
Her rich, tangled red hair covered with leaves...
fiery orange, dying green, decaying brown.
She smells of woodsmoke,
and the crisp cold of an October night.
There are icy constellations in her eyes,
they rotate slowly, each star within dreaming
of warmer climes upon which to shine.
Her breath smells of cinnamon, and pumpkin spice...
she speaks in whispers, about masks and the runes
contained within the flight patterns of migrating birds.
She whispers the secrets of sudden storms at sea,
and the wishes of slumbering seeds.
Her feet are bare, her brocade dress torn.
Amber jewels hang about her neck, and grace her
pale, pale fingers.
A leaf falls, she catches it in the palm of her hand.
It trembles, and then is still.
She is the mother of transition, and of long sleep...
of endless dreaming nights.
The ancients worshipped her;
warmed by the light of bonfires,
they offered up stories with the pungent smoke.
The animals look to her,
sensing when her changes are near at hand.
They gather, or flee, or ready their burrows.
She speaks in whispers, and we feel her in our bones;
her touch soft, yet insistent.
When the gentle caress of the summer winds
surrender to her chill exhalations...
we remember then, what we forget every spring.
The harvest moon is rising; it is her time again,
to walk the cornfields and the woodlands;
painting them with glittering hoarfrost...
everything is quiet, now-
save for the muted conversation of falling leaves...
and the brush of her cold, cold fingers against the trees.