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Elegy For Summer
A fragment
The last tired vestige of summer lingers
In the dwindling fires of the sun.
Naked trees stretch out their bony fingers
To our star, as if begging, “Please, give some.”
But he is now a miser, giving none.
The last leaves begin to quake, start to shake,
In a spiraling plunge they come undone.
As they melt into the ground one cannot mistake
The head of winter, the constant seasonal ache.
The world above my eyes begins to fade
Into an endless expanse of dire gray,
A cold, barren world of empty sights made
Of the ghosts of all that has passed away.
With the withering sky soon wanes the day.
The world becomes a silent film, of black
And white, a monchromatic boquet.
The world in vision is defined by a lack,
The year unwinding, made up in the end of slack.
Tags: Poetry
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