The birds quiet, and the hills enter repose
As Summer greets the approaching end,
An old woman now, bowing her head
In overt accession to defeat, and yet
Her eyes are twin infernos.
Nature feints a loser’s walk to decadence
‘Til, in a terminal irony of spirit,
She responds in a desperate vibrancy
Surpassing herself in demise
As if the prime of life was monotonously drab.
She accepts the time for finality
But is not quiescent, bursting into color
Transforming every leaf into a rebellion banner,
Every tree into a soldier, bearing high his dissent
This is Autumn. This is goodbye.
Parting speech nor expression of sentiment
She is an exposition, a demonstration, and
A denouement, all in demise.
Autumn is the manifestation of resistance
Against the wars of imminent death;
A saint and martyr of the terminal spirit.