Autumn is the cruelest season.
The abundant warmth from summer endures.
Only the earliest of mornings and latest of nights Warn you of impending change.
The flaming maple leaves
Mesh with the still verdant oaks
In a pleasing kaleidoscope of color.
The metamorphosis seems a reverie of all good things to come.
You are blissfully unaware when
The air turns icy sharp and warm sun wanes,
Leaving you cold, numb.
Those fleeting summer dreams, once vibrant as hope itself,
Are now nondescript gray-brown.
They fall, down and down,
To be trodden on and left to rot.
The world's beauty has gone to sleep,
And your dreams with it.
Sorry if this is a bit depressing, I've had some feelings that have needed to come out for a long time, and the change of seasons seemed to fit my mood. Autumn is actually my favorite time of year, but I realized the other day that in the midst of all of the changing leaves and spicy smells, Autumn is really just the dying season before Winter.
I like the imagery. It's interesting--I've had a couple other friends write poems about how autumn is the dying part of the year too. And yet it is most people's favorite season, I think. Interesting. Don't you love you I'm analyzing your poem instead of Wordsworth? haha. But yeah. It's depressing. But I like it. :)
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