A Cold Foreshadow

The third day of Autumn passes me by, And already a chill I feel. There's a glowing warmth that fades like the raisin sun of spades; a wrinkled orb on Apollo's heel. The wind chimes through a hollow trunk. It's desperate voice across the skies, bellows "Winter is coming" before it dies and betrays all the spring and summer junk. Emptily goes and emptily back, warrants an autumnal ghost; I watch leaves dance like glittering toast all along the seasoned track. And I gain on the wintry man of frosty tack.