A Summer’s plight on the eve of Fall
with which its breadth can be seen for miles
By the trees and the leaves,
setting earth apart from sky.
My, how soft; it dims.
The plight of Summer softens slightly. Still,
suchlike the clouds above.
The retreating warmth—once so comforting—leaves.
Left are we the chills by which all things living
retreat into their melancholic catharsis:
A contented hole, starkly black.
My heart sings out to Summer
in a miscarried tune, bitter-sweet.
But the plight of summer carries no more.
And now my heart must beat anew
for the crisp sting of Autumn, calling, so soft
My veins stiffen.