The Pale-Faced Ones Go Door-to-Door

The movement of the leaves
Wrangled in a shoelace.
Apple cider breeze
Swirling, in the porch race.
Beet-red burning candles
Warming on a plate,
Raven rapid knocks
Glowing globes for Mr. Samhain. 

Covered in the dough of Fall
The tapps shall reach a soul..
While the kitchen whips, its cauldron dish,
From the streets, they watch the door.
Cloaked shoulder with a dish towel
Passing out their smiles, 
The Pale Ones whisking through the air
While the dead put on more mileage.

The pattering of the weeds

Shaking in the bloomfields
Crossing beyond the graves
A dog barks in the distance.
Walking with the goblins, 

Faces gaunt and grimaced,
Bike chains break, spilling sugar bowls,
This is the night when the veil is thinnest