And so, in the cold, the process begins: the night arrays the leaves,
making the death bed.
Day will end the year
before it finally departs.
Soon it will die,
the sun that heards children to the beach.
Leaving only drizzle.
Shifting colors. And you do not understand.
On the calendar the season is mute.
Even I am bored with the calendar.
Beneath the red leaves, Your footprints areu burried
still and unchanged. The summer was so great.
The latest news is snow.
A distant murmur, ushered by time.
We pray no more. We fail to know.
We have only dusk, the worn-out final heat.