Frost makes frozen confection of the lawn

while ice forms– too soon–upon the pond

with angled etchings of  broken twigs,

mirroring the season to come…

The dock is slippery when I cross

so I proceed with care

as if at a viewing,

of Summer past.

Just as I step down upon the rock

that leads back to the road,

I am tapped on the shoulder

by a hanging branch

dangling,

Death

Kelly Salasin, Late Autumn 2009