The Death of a Season
By John Herlihy

The death of a season gives no accounting and no clear reason,
Why it awakens, flourishes and dies a death as if from treason.
Each of the seasons arrive without a word at the appointed time,
They express a unique quality derived from realms of the Sublime.
The enriching splendor of summer lies spread out across the plain,
Knowing from experience that soon nothing will remain the same.
Indian summer like an uninvited guest still wishing to impress,
Still fighting for its temporary possession of her green dress.
From the top of the mountain to the valley at the bottom,
She protects her greenery from the onslaught of autumn.
While losing it to the conflagration of reds, yellows and browns,
You would think the trees thrived in the land of echoing sounds.
Death comes in a blaze of colors in the kingdom of leaves,
Drifting to earth with a final wave as they take their leave.
The earth waits in hushed silence for the coming of the snow,
That will blanket every created thing and allow nothing to grow.
The hoarfrost will cover everything with its layers of icing;
Icicles will hang delicately from eaves like a finger enticing.
People here on earth mourn the death of a season but briefly,
Thankful for the range of seasons that enchant us so sweetly.