It's dark at five o'clock
the rain is washing away the leaves
another season flushed into oblivion
leaving piles of flotsam and regret
The sky is grey at eight a.m.
tinting memories of Saturday's sun
with a mask of autumnal finality
I hate Standard Time.
But there's nothing as beautiful
as a child on a leaf-strewn trail
beneath a canopy of maroon and gold
with holes of cold, crisp blue
And there's nothing quite as sweet
as grabbing that moment of mortality
It's fall, it's harvest time
and you're reaping the fruits of summer memory
