Before Winter comes,
bringing in the dark, cold and lonesome nights,
the summer swells fulsomely.
Swollen trees’ green buxom bosoms waft dancingly;
swaying, in music time, like women in their prime; clutching a glass of cold
dry wine in the sunlight,
flirting outrageously with life;
confident tomorrow they will still shine.
All gloriful in their swansong they drink thirstily mouthfuls of
summer breeze and still blue sky
their back exposed in frocks of green:
Naked beauty gnarled rich brown bark crowned in rich green.
Autumn September sky will take hold.
Winter will whisk their joy from under them while their glass is yet half full,
spilling stale and unfinished warmed wine onto hardening ground
rendering them barren once again
to die another death.
It will bring them to their knees.
Starting soft and teasing with an occasional cutting wind
and spiteful spatter of rain,
grey opaque skies and slow dark nights
will grow more cruel.
Time’s dumb onwardness
will blithely and obediently ration the days until
Night time will rule and fingers will bite with cold.
Mornings will taunt you from your bed.
Summer’s song will be but a distant memory.
The self same trees dressed in their summer finery now,
mocked, will cut sharp bent lines into the whitening sky.
Tortured and tormented for believing they could stay young and confident;
Punished for their defiant glowing into the dying hot embers of summer.
They will be shown.
The most beautiful part of summer is when it is nearly over.
It yearns unto itself like the rushing of the hungry waves before the tide pulls them,
thrashing, back into the sea like wayward children dragged home.
The full fat waves which lap with playful aggression onto the shore like a childish dog
yapping to play will grow thin upon the sand
leaving the seabed exposed and bare once more.
And the Rose will Fall.