A breeze rustles the leaves.
The tears of the world,
Crisp and dying,
Lamenting the loss of summer,
Hang heavily in magnificent hues
From bowed branches.
Occasionally, a tear drops
And spirals slowly to the ground
Where it lies among its brothers
In a carpet of golds, reds and oranges.
The song of the meadowlark
Sad and sweet
Rings across the meadow in the morning
Crying out to the sun
Who is weakening by the day.
The tree in which the bird perches is full of ripe apples
Which hang seductively from its boughs
Tempting, begging for its fruit to be taken
Before it’s too late.
The world is surrendering itself to September
And to the winter that lies beyond
Just as it always has done,
Extracting itself from life and color
Until the summer comes again.