The Saddest Month
April has been called the cruelest month,
and that may well be so.
But sadder by far is October--
ask any tree, for they all know.
October glides in wearing many jewels
bathing dying gardens in warm glows.
Their gold and ruby and amber hues
perform the quintessential Autumn show.
But then, as if one, leaves begin to fall
like tears on an old oak's face.
The red and gold they flaunted so
become Winter's rental space.
Barren branches stretch their limbs
in supplication to the skies.
They ask, if possible, for bluest skies
and snowy lace to wear as a disguise.
Before long, the garden's colorful riot
has faded to browns and greys.
Bushes huddle together knowing
Winter will soon have its shivering ways.
So like ourselves, when our once bushy heads
become sprinkled with Winter white
We exclaim, who's the person looking at us
in the mirror? Must have crept in overnight!
Our arms, once strong and tanned by the sun,
voices rich with our songs not all sung.
The beauty we once thought rightfully ours'
now graces only the young.
Sometimes change doesn't appear good,
the trees would understand.
We miss the long walks with confident strides;
trees wish for greenery on demand.
We've weathered seasons, along with the trees,
but days now go too fast.
Soon, we too will hear Winter's song,
and we'll cry, Summer, why couldn't you last?
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