Brisk, this cold October wind, br pruning husks of brown-balled leaves br into effigies of Autumn's wane, br sweeps with besom broom br all the cluttered corners, br and the recessed secrets, br from the hollow's outgrowth, br flushed from the shadows br into the sickle of a quarter moon, br its crisp sheen cold upon the throat. br br Fear is unmasked in the witching wind br far from the pranks of tromping children br who dare, amid the leaves, to taunt br with old songs and a cut switch, br the stark, cobwebbed clapboards br of grave side ghosts br loosed upon the world, br to haunt this last slanted sheaf of corn, br stalked by the scythe br in the dread season of the harvest. br br Even fire hides from the cold br in the skin of the gourd br on All Hallow's Eve, br its wind prying the brain’s stonehenge - br where death feared by the aging heart br close to the grave br becomes but a game br mimed by mischievious charades br of children, costumed br for their parade of life and death in the park.