Fall in the South

Oranges, yellows, reds,
Speckled on the mountains.
God’s shaker overseasons.
He tempers it with the cool mist.
His painting is complete.

Apple trees heavy with fruit
Cling to the mountain.
They beckon the tourists.
Warm apple cider donuts.
Hot drinks.
Chilled noses,
Red and running.

Mothers carry tissues
Minding the youngins.
Over yonder
I see the lazy mother.
Draped in her peppered blanket,
She is ready for the sweet hibernation.

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