This is the last kiss.

A dewy autumn field
Is falling quietly asleep in the early twilight.
The fingers of the wind are searching
Through tall, dancing grass
To find Queen Anne's Lace
That has yet to fall away into dreaming;
The sunset will sing them to sleep
With the last cricket's song.
A few frogs are still creaking in the distance,
A sign that December's breeze
Will soon rock them away beneath a blanket of snow —
Closing their eyes and gracing their way Into a dream of better things.

Goodnight.