The air bites clean and crisp,
A pumpkin-spice kiss.
Trees shed their vibrant robes,
Of crimson, gold, and bronze globes.
A whisper of the waning sun,
Autumn’s short dance has begun.
All About Writing and more
Advice, challenges, poetry and prose
The air bites clean and crisp,
A pumpkin-spice kiss.
Trees shed their vibrant robes,
Of crimson, gold, and bronze globes.
A whisper of the waning sun,
Autumn’s short dance has begun.
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