Whispers, clear with enunciation,
Brush the bristles of inner ear,
Whispers, their cold sensation,
The sweet sting of chilled wind;
The palette of warm colors I hear.
They fall to the earth,
A crisp crunch beneath each lunge,
Some thin and some with girth,
My senses delighted to no end;
A sea of sights, I dare plunge.
Pumpkin-spiced aromas diffuse
The air, the assortment of scents an array,
Everything a mellow hue:
Leaf beds orange and reddened
And cushions of yellowed hay.
When the undead, we praise,
A celebration of the possessed,
These animated days,
I wish they’d ne’er end;
Lest we forget the Fall’s fest.
