The Season of the Sun Has Passed

The season of the sun has passed.

the once all-important, omnipresent,

bright, heavy, brutal sun,

which kills eyes and burns flesh

has been replaced.

 

Now the glorious, rusty, sweet, crisp leaves

have taken center stage.

They fall, leaving

blackish-brown, twisted tree limbs, bare

to the harsh elements

 

Serenely they float,

unaware,

Dancing over still-fresh grass

which weeps with the knowledge

that sooner than not

It will be as dead as the performers above it.