By: Canaan Nonnemacher

The hour is late, the streets are damp,

The mist creeps low across the lawn.

A solitary silver lamp

Burns weakly, waiting for the dawn.

The windows stare like vacant eyes,

Above the hollow, quiet street,

Where shadows stretch and sound replies

To soft, quick taps of running feet.

A fence post holds a silly trick,

A toilet paper shroud it wears.

A garden gnome, misplaced and quick,

Is moved from where the owner cares.

A whispered name behind a tree,

A giggle smothered by a sleeve—

For tonight, the spirit of glee

Gives license to what we believe.

The door springs open, light spills wide,

A hand drops chocolate in a pail.

The youthful faces, hard to hide,

Are cheered by sugar’s sweet prevail.

The wind picks up a forgotten leaf,

It dances with a hurried sound,

For in this night of playful grief,

The best kept secrets can be found.

We tell the tales of ancient dread,

Of witches, wolves, and things unseen,

But really, it’s the fun instead,

That crowns the night of Halloween.