Leaves crunch underfoot
Stop and look up at the trees.
Magic happens now
Night sighs, soft yawns, eyes peeking open with flecks of red and gold
These whispers of ancients teach us new songs.
Now the veil thins, and none are really gone
With reverence
we gather in the holy gloom.
And worship the chill of fleeting beauty.
@Copyright 2020 Miranda Maples