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Poem

All those last days I felt the summer's blues
around the garden, where the bitter time
flies past in butterflies with heavy wings,
all drunk from scent the roses left behind.

The dragonflies seem bolder than in May,
their flight aims higher,
yet their life seems shorter.
I see a chrysalis, a corpse in disarray
exposed and hanging on the spiky reeds.

The first leaves start to fall, the mushroom rise
too early now. Will autumn overrun?
And will it stay? How long? The race goes on.

I wonder if the scented lilac dares
to unfold petals early, cheat the time,
escape from summer's hold and open soon?

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