October sighs around the eaves
And wakes in me such contemplation
Of passing years and falling leaves.
'Twas spring that birthed gnarled twisting vine,
And summer nurtured growing grape,
But she, who pressed the precious wine.
She paints the mountains, Monet's hues
Their craggy peaks are now infused,
Violet and rose to subtle blues.
Her phantom mists dance on the wold
Like Will O Wisp in memories
That neither mind nor hand can hold.
With fickle moods she'll cause despair,
For in her lies a cruel streak
Too well I know her frosty glare.
Then she will change, perhaps a whim
To mimic summer's balmy days
Though sun will wear a hazy rim.
She breathes the wind to stir the leaves
That swirl for her in jocund dance;
This, the gardener often peeves.
Her beauty is of russet golds
Shrouded in a misty veil
That under pallid sun unfolds.
But can my autumn be as fair
As this tenth month of closing year?
My breath escapes like quiet prayer.
Gold trophy winner
Silver trophy winner
Honorable mention
Adding your comment:
This is a beautiful penning, so worthy of all its glittering chalices. Good luck in the contest, my Friend. 
I love October and with this piece you completely captured the essence of fall! You should have th gold for sure! With you vivid imagery and the perfect picture. Good luck.... not that you need it!
