A single word opens the poem: listen. The speaker invites you into a moment of complete stillness, asking you to pay attention to a sound so subtle you might otherwise miss it. The leaves are brittle from frost, and as they detach and drift down, they make a faint, dry rustle. That sound is compared to the footsteps of ghosts passing by — a whisper of movement that’s barely there, delicate and haunting.
There’s no strong emotion stated outright, but the quiet hush of the language suggests a feeling of solitary attentiveness. The speaker seems paused, absorbed, maybe even a little melancholy, standing in the cold November air and noticing the season’s end in that fragile crackle. The mood is eerie but not frightening — more like a calm awareness of time slipping away, as if the trees are letting go of their last hold on life, and you can hear it if you’re quiet enough.