The Hollowing Season

Crimson leaves fracture beneath the wind,

their edges brittle with frost still shivering.

The sun bows early, a reluctant sentinel,

pouring molten shadows across mountains.

A coldness holds on to the hollers,

and branches shiver as if paying respect to heat.

A hawk glides low, slicing through

the marrow of fading warmth.

Frost drapes the hollers in a lace of ruin,

and dew stiffens into brittle latticework.

Trees surrender sap to creeping cold,

while the river drags a ribbon of mist

through shattered reeds, speaking of surrender.

The scent of leaves gone sour mingles with the night,

and bare limbs rattle like brittle bones.

The sky moving toward night with a bruised violet hush,

and shadows crawl across hollers and hollowed earth,

hungry, patient, unbroken.

An owl perches above, a dark sentinel,

its gaze unraveling the last heat of day.

Every shiver, every sound, every fading scent

seems carved to remind the senses

that frost advances slowly,

and the season once bright becomes memory.