The Ochre of October

Which fall night would catch me quick
In the dawns dew of the day?
Would it be by the grey clouds sinking,
Above an ochre highway stained?

Meadows of bending rye.
Decaying cornstalks turn,
To the whisper of a breezy rush
Sounding the old birch leaves on the stoop.

Dampened grasses touch.
A chilly breath releases mood,
Stirring memories below the oak,
Raising the ghosts that I once knew.

Painted-faces race,
Mumming for their snacks.
Ringing bells and tapping glass,
Looking to fill their bags. 

Sewing the seeds of autumn
Persephone's eyes lament,
Growing lower through Hades smoldered
At the place where Demeter wept.