Summer’s End

 Crisp be this air as this summer’s end draws near.  Trees with their leaves; nature’s voice be heard.  Wish they not for this ending.  Yet no hand stops the season from turning.  Song birds in the trees feel this cold; as does the tree, her branches all but empty.   Barren the tree stands without a single comfort.  She knows nothing can stop that which be summer’s end. The song birds know full well that they must seek warmth.  So on winged flight the music and the songs heard no longer.  On winged flight they escape from this which is the seasons’ turn.  Still man wishes not to see for he feels the unknown fear of the season’s turn.  Yet man and tree be different.  As when the tree, with its leaves dieing on the ground; the tree knows the leaves will return and bring their beauty to the tree.  Man knows that with each season’s turn, death comes ever nearer.  So like the tree, man will stand barren, empty, and alone.  Yet what of these awesome sights that passed, season to season; the everlasting memory of summer’s end

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