The thin fingers of wraiths dangle from the sky.
Their nails scrape my face with tiny wet pinpricks.
Theirs is a gray day rife with clammy hands and cold noses.
Today is a day to roam free, with cloud and earth as one.
Death may come on Fall's sharp breeze,
and wraiths sting us with their soaking hands,
but yellow sun and red fire
makes present the promise of newborn life.
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