twigs so frail.
Change of color
in between, seasons stutter.
Cold temps, the start of Winter’s mutter.
Lots of comfort food resting in butter.
Misty fog, this picture is perfect for a blog.
Transition into a colder situ’ation,
like a headache wife rolling over to a fetal po'sition.
Winter’s born almost here,
Kissing chilly lips, she must’ve-been-right
the only thing that’ll warm your lips, is pumpkin spice…