And somehow winter arrives on a fast horse, always racing when we are not ready
lungs of the white horse heaving, legs and chest storming, calling forth the strong wind
never considering the leaves, or the joy we felt with cool air,
instead stomping galloping over the dead colors,
bringing in the reign of the artic.
Perhaps next year we can relish the autumn
just a little bit longer until the fast horse
down our neck again.
Poetry and Image © Copyright 2016, ancient skies