When days grow short and nights get cold
And autumn trees turn red and gold,
Move, we may, through sun drenched days
‘Midst leaves and berries and bales of hay.
In our hearts we feel the lure
Toward darkness, shivers, and things not pure,
While ghostly shadows creep slowly by,
Spying on witches and brooms that fly.
Icy fingers that grab their prey
And do bad things ’til night turns to day.
Heed this plea to stay inside.
Find covers and blankets and sheets to hide.
Slowly this night will fade to day
And fiends and monsters will crawl away.
Once a year, on this dank night,
We’ll shake and shiver ’til morning light.
Copyright ©2015 Denise M. Cocchiaro