Is there a better place to be for Halloween than New England? Lots of leaves on the ground, the skeletal branches of bare trees reaching towards the sky, the lovely musky smell of fallen leaves mixed with the smell of someone’s fireplace. It’s the best. I mean, as much as I’ve come to accept Arizona, palm tree branches swaying above the swimming pool just doesn’t cut it.

A poem perfect for a night where there is a chill in the air and a nearly-full moon shines behind wispy clouds chasing the remains of Sandy:

She comes by night, in fearsome flight,
In garments black as pitch,
the queen of doom upon her broom,
the wild and wicked witch,

a crackling crone with brittle bones
and dessicated limbs,
two evil eyes with warts and sties
and bags about the rims,

a dangling nose, ten twisted toes
and fold of shriveled skin,
cracked and chipped and crackled lips
that frame a toothless grin.

She hurtles by, she sweeps the sky
and hurls a piercing screech.
As she swoops past, a spell is cast
on all her curses reach.

Take care to hide when the wild witch rides
to shriek her evil spell.
What she may do with a word or two
is much too grim to tell.

Hat tip: The Holiday Spot.

Music for tonight courtesy of Pink Floyd. One of my, and my late brother Mark’s favorite early Floyd tunes. One can honestly say they don’t make music like that anymore.