Copyright © 2015-2019
Crisp leaves curl in a chill wind,
It is the end of summer, innocence lost.
Day and night smear into one another,
It is the half-light, crepuscular dawn.
Musty mulch overwhelms cut grasses,
It is the scent of the season, inevitable decay.
Branches crack. Break. Brittle, icy bones.
It is the end.