Autumn Crisp


Sometimes in the autumn night,

when all is calm and still,

the only sound that can be heard,

is that of winter's promising chill.

It settles on the air,

thickening the breeze,

a prelude to what lies ahead

when winds begin to freeze.

On a nip of northern wings,

that fleetingly swirl around,

briskly it sprinkles the atmosphere,

lying frost upon the ground.

I like to think it has a reason,

a purpose it always achieves,

that by blowing its chilling breath so soon,

it is what crisps the leaves.

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