“First Frost,” Ensign, July 1990, 69
First Frost
Third Place
The nip
That crimps the vine
And curls the leaves of quaking aspen
Taints the shimmering
Emerald fields.
Gone are languid days
Of sun-sponged idleness
And water frivolity.
Yet now
The nip of first frost
Tweaks the cheeks of apples
And opens pinion cones
To sprinkle pine nuts
On the ground.
The honk
Of geese on marshy ponds,
The acrid smell of wood smoke
Seals summer in time.
And beckons
A new season.
View of the Tiber Near Peruga, by George Inness; courtesy of National Gallery of Art, Washington: Ailsa Mellon Bruce Fund