. A Seasonal Concoction He loved to have a cup of coffee in dawn’s dimmest light. It helped clear cobwebs from those heavy eyelids of the night. His narrow pumpkin head could start to gaze with orange eyes. His skeleton could once again experience surprise. The ghost-white sheets of sleepy deeps could be left in the bed with dreams of candy corn and broom-stick witches in his head. His crow’s feet could begin to move; life’s candles could be lit. The horrors of the dark could be freed from the cauldon’s pit. The black cat and the ebon bat could go back with the owl, and with that bitter drink he could unsmock the frocked monk’s cowl. . . Bruce Dale Wise is a poet currently residing in Texas.