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.

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.
~ © Denise M. Cocchiaro ~

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