Summer's lease is all too short,
And all the world is mad.
Lazy days and heat's malaise,
A mild dissention lights our ways,
And hard indifference, love's resort.
The fiery heart is glad.
Autumn is a death to me.
Its nature is a wake.
Though wind cannot rescind the past,
The autumn's colors never last.
The golden robes upon the tree
Autonomously break.
Winter then, is autumn's ghost,
A specter in the dark.
Views of cold and growing old,
And bleak depression fills the mold.
And death is winter's hope to most,
A season frozen stark.
The only time of hope is spring,
The time to resurrect.
A splash of paint upon each leaf,
The petal bloom and vibrant sheaf,
A blessing then, the showers bring,
A palette circumspect.
Comments