The twilight bears a bitter chill
My book, too, carries frigid thrill
To think of the spirits  about
(For at this season, they are let out:

The date when death and life will meet
As truth mixes with deceit.
The children all in costume dress
To put our horrors into jest).

There’s one lone tree atop my hill:
Branches will soon be barer still,
A skeleton of springtime dead,
Its blanket snow, the world its bed.

The stories end, my reading done.
While watching Trick-or-Treaters run,
I take in the taste of autumn’s breeze
And sit near my tree amidst the leaves.

So I walked and walked and walked
Seeing no stone I trod on.
I walked until my feet bled
And then I fell.

I saw the stones.
They were all I could see.
I knew each as it dug
Into my cheek, my arms, my chest
I finally felt my bleeding feet.

My knees scraped across the path.
I crawled, as one must
Before walking. But,
I am not a child;
I am grown.
I will stand and stop
My now bleeding hands
From shaking.
The grass soothes,
The direction unknown.

I’ll learn to walk again
Before running.