The deep stillness in the air.
Golden light sparkled down,
Illuminating gaps amongst the wood,
Weaving gold from muted brown.
Dewy mist gently rolls in
Across an iridescent lake,
Crystalizing the landscape,
No warmth in its wake.
The first dry leaf under foot,
Heard with an audible crunch,
The warmth of wool against skin,
Grace in the form of touch.
The sight of breath on the wind.
An internal desire for peace,
Not a chirp or a sound,
From human or beast.
The changing of the guard,
We have made it out of summer,
The time of rest is within us.
Amongst the riot of color.
The longing for what is now lost,
The unavoidable undercurrent of sorrow
Is not to be mourned for long,
For we are grateful to have
The future of tomorrow.
About the Creator
Rachael MacDonald
Avid Reader, Sometimes Poet, Occasional Writer, and searcher of truths often lost in the breaths between candy-coated lies.
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