The threadbare weave of winter
comes after the last leaf of autumn
has only barely touched the ground.
A chill that inherits the air
tells of the new season around.
The last ghosts of autumn
linger as if in a dream
before winter’s blanket
shrouds all to hide the ground.
28 September 2o11
David Harris
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/last-ghosts-of-autumn/
