The smell of cold air and leaves painted, is stronger up high
held quietly by the mountains, as if the master’s work
of autumn begins first, closer to heaven.
As the paintbrush moves further down
to the leaves in the valley, the blessing
of color spreads, one leaf at a time.
And we begin to put our hats on,
and to taste our pumpkin pies.
Poetry and Image © Copyright 2016, Ancient Skies