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?