Apples and Pumpkin Spice - with Adagio

In autumn's wind, apple cheeks are red
trees have shed their leaves of mascara
with strings and songs of Mantovani.
Whispers lay silent on the porch glider
and the Goldenrod grows taller
as the cornstalks grow their chowder.
The Scarecrows become ventriloquist
throwing the voices among shadows  
Listening as plums harvest the wine  
in autumn's wind, apple cheeks are red.

The aromas of pumpkin spice
are carried by the gentle breeze
that brushes my hair across my eyes.
While dusk approaches
the cold edge of the wind
cuts across my exposed flesh
and we light the night with warmth.
Dancing with the movement of the fire
our shadows get lost
as we crush the leaves beneath our feet.
The scent of burning gets mixed in
the aromas of pumpkin spice.