The trees are dying
Leaves yellow, brown,
drop, rot on paths,
trodden underfoot.

The air is dank,
Sullen November
skies weigh
wearily on the eye.

Passers-by,
preoccupied,
gaze into middle
distance, dodge
all greetings.

The birds have
given up and gone
south; anywhere
but here.

Is this what my
summer beauty has
come to?
Dare I ever hope
for more?