Once a child, so hurting and defeated, grasped my hand and gravely pleaded,
for he wished and begged that I remain so near him -- never to go away.
I, of heavy heart, repeated,"Brother, do not feel so truly cheated;
take my hand; remember times of laughter, for this pain lasts only today...

And,
Shaking, I released him; I released my cheer and love, this: the des'late way--

Which season of souls refined the grass of Denver;
calling for my sweet September?
For, apparent are the flaws of that acre and soil from 'neath the cloud of fervor.
Mute: the winds of bitter cold; a silent ember: I embrace my steep November --
Stooping for the brittle age of that preserver, comes tomorrow: I, a keen observer.

And,
Haunted, I am left my mind alone, and wander...

Why?
For,
Winter has an echo mute; a coldened cry, a muffled route,
Whispered for the hushed December, In this season I remember:
quiet thoughts, and deadened root, sighing to the April: mute.