Waving last goodbyes, this summer’s sun
Has hurried home to winter. “On the run,”
As some would say, not out of fear so much
As duty. Anyway, he’ll keep in touch
While on the wing.
Autumn’s golden memories are spent
And scattered in the wind. It’s time for tents
To take a final trip before the rains
Come. Summer’s left but few refrains
For us to sing.
Winter’s soon to steal his way towards
My door and make himself at home. My words
Won’t stop his barging in and icy stare.
I’ll bundle up behind my book and dare
To dream of spring.
9/28/1982 while at work