Held Quietly by the Mountains

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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

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