Autumn
THE SUN DOES LIE,
LOW IN THE SKY.
SHORT DAYS,
SHADOW THE WAYS.
DIFFERENT, FROM MAY'S.
SEE,
THE SLEEPY BEE.
THE HUM OF HIS WINGS, MADE HEAVY, BY THE CHILL,
WILL,
MAKE HIM SLOTHFUL.
I APPROACH,
YET HE DOES NOT STIR.
I COULD CRUSH HIM,
AS HE SLUMBERS THERE.
TO YOUR HOME, NOW,
SLEEPY BEE.
THE SEASON HAS TAKEN YOUR FLIGHT.
FOR AS WELL IT MIGHT.
AND, THE MIDGES, AND THE DRAGONFLY
ARE OVER THE BROOK.
AND WITH SHORT LIFE, THEY DIE.
TO THE GLEE OF THE FISHES BELOW.
RIPE CATCHINGS, THEY WILL MAKE.
INTO THEIR EXISTENCE, THEY WILL TAKE.
THANK YOU,
FAILED WINGS.
THAT SUCCULENCE, TO THEM, BRINGS.
AND THE KINGFISHER SINGS.
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