Post by Salzmank on Oct 4, 2017 4:07:43 GMT
October is a twilight country,
the land of reds and browns,
of burning leaves and pumpkin spices,
early darks and witching moons.
Its air is crisp and careful,
awaiting tangibility--
to chill but not to freeze, not yet.
There is something sacramental in the air,
something transubstantiatial in the breeze.
Beware, the ghosts are walking.
This is the most mysterious of months.
We dream autumnal dreams that
fly and tumble, mix with fogs and mists,
descend near riverbeds, dance in moonlit corners,
like the leaves.
And, on a cool, crisp day, we enter.
We become October people,
we think October thoughts,
and we cross again
into the twilight country of the year.
the land of reds and browns,
of burning leaves and pumpkin spices,
early darks and witching moons.
Its air is crisp and careful,
awaiting tangibility--
to chill but not to freeze, not yet.
There is something sacramental in the air,
something transubstantiatial in the breeze.
Beware, the ghosts are walking.
This is the most mysterious of months.
We dream autumnal dreams that
fly and tumble, mix with fogs and mists,
descend near riverbeds, dance in moonlit corners,
like the leaves.
And, on a cool, crisp day, we enter.
We become October people,
we think October thoughts,
and we cross again
into the twilight country of the year.