Thursday, February 3, 2011

The Mask

     Photo by Shannon Thomas Casebeer
The Mask

If I were a tree as fall creeps in,
With summer dripping from his chin,
I think I’d see through falls disguise,
And linger not to eulogize.
For sure as summer days grow still
And find new ways to steal our will,
Right behind on summers heels,
Fall’s sniffing at persimmon peels.
Before the trees can shake the spells
Of buzzing bees and summer's smells,
Fall slithers in on morning mist,
And wipes his chin with an icy fist.
While weasel eyes and sharp goat’s feet,
Search cold fall skies for things to eat,
Summer’s gone without a trace,
And falls mask slips from winter's face. 

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