The heat
Has receded,
It is darker
Earlier
Now.
The once-lush
Groves and
Gardens
Have morphed
Into haunting,
Sharp-wind pruned
Skeletons
Of their former selves,
Inhabited no longer by
By the melodious chirp-chirping
Of a young robin…
Instead,
A squirrel hibernates
Within.
Leaves plaster themselves,
With the early morning dew
And raindrops
As their paste
To the cold,
Grey,
Slab of concrete
That separates
Winter from summer.
The crisp, clear freshness
Of December
Has not yet wound
Its bittersweet
Icicle fingers
Around us,
But july
Is a thing
Of the past.
For now,
We must wait.
Wait for the cheer of January,
The passion of august,
The
World
To
Turn.
And it will.

Are we not spinning out of control
Already?
Why rush?
Why push this velvet season of limbo
Away
Like colorful poison?
Taste it,
For the sun is still alive.
The last leaf
Will drift away soon enough…

Must you pull it off?