A trail of fog winds through the village
Smudging the horizon with a dampened brush
Cloaks the bushes with moist cool blanket
Coaxes the trees with velour skirts
To give up their green and don the colors
For the harvest ball it expects soon to begin.
Early enough for the town to be quiet
Sleeping with blanket tucked up near its eaves
A few migrant vehicles slowly dare to intrude
Lights pinpointing naught but a moment ahead
For earth is undressing and changing her clothes
Curling the leaves on the birch and the bush.
Behind the gauze curtains, the Master is busy
Tinting the forest for the dinner and dance
Stripping the bride of her perfume and passion
Bathing her softly with moisture's fresh glow
Painting her body in sepia and gold
Brushing her cheeks with vermilion and scarlet.
Father Sun will awaken and find her quite changed
Plump her berries and pumpkins into fat round orbs
Add the glint and the glitter to mask the dry days
Puts on her brown stockings threadbare and seamless
Paints her caves and her caverns with deepening despair
Gives her one last wet kiss as she moves closer to old.
I, the voyeur, in this pre-death rite
Mourn her unpinning and maturing of plight
Watch with round eyes and heart full of fear
Behind my warm walls and curtains half-pulled
Warmed by fake fire and cup steaming coffee
Moving towards my own inevitable fall.