You arise in the morn' on a nearby hill,
And begin to dance in the sage.
There's a nip in the air, full of frost and fun,
So a little mischief you will wage.

A wayward, carefree vagabond,
You sneak into the dale,
Blowing rose-dust on the children's cheeks,
Then restless--onward you sail.

But, the Harvest Moon has changed her style,
And today wears a coat of blue,
She'll tease and wink a coquet eye;
Then she'll turn her back on you.

And like carefree, gypsy nymphs,
The leaves forsake the tree.
They rustle golden petticoats,
As you cause them to quickly flee.

Daylight lowers her fragile shades
Much more hastily every eve;
You ponder why she is so fretful,
So you rise and you storm and you grieve.

One by one, your Autumn playmates
Have turned and ran away,
Shouting promises to reappear
On a warmer, kinder day.

But, your wrath at being left alone,
Gives rise to your chilling side,
So Nature drops a blanket of white,
Helping those who wish to hide.

You extend your icy fingertips,
And strum 'cross the sleeping land.
You whip banshee blizzards, and then command,
"Let the Dark Season enter grand!"

You commence to taunt each dwelling;
You hiss and you moan at the door.
You rattle and scratch at the windows,
Through which voices spin tales of yore.

You'd do well to sit by my fireside,
Grant yourself a much-needed rest.
But, you'd likely become a shivery draft,
Then, alas, an unwelcome guest.

Winter Wind--Your fury is destined to vanish,
For a lady will make your heart sing.
Indeed, your cold, lonesome journey has ended,
When Chinook waltzes you into Spring.

Copyrights: Photos and page text content copyrighted, Cris Paravicini, 1999. No part may be reproduced without permission of the author/photographer. Page graphics copyrighted, Pinedale Online, 1999.