37 feels like 27.
So says
The Weather Channel.
My numb cheeks
would agree.
A grey wind is
rattling tree limbs,
removing the remnants
of the season,
the once vibrant
leaves of fall.
As I shuffle through
the scattered piles of
of leaves below
the old oak trees,
the withered, brown
leaves crunch beneath
my feet.
The river
in the distance is
flowing freely now.
Its icy edges
will be forming
all too soon,
slowing the water
when winter blows
its icy breath
once more.
Bracing against
the gusty winds,
I trudge toward home,
warmth, and comfort,
to mourn the
passing of another
autumn season.
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