why are leaves only beautiful after forsaking the tree,
famed after death and disregarded in life,
vibrant hues of scarlet, citrus, and amber,
glorifying inevitable wintertide.
bearing lightless days and passionless nights,
sheets upon sheets upon sheets of ice,
thus we lie dormant in wait such as the fickle fox,
for aforesaid tree to bloom anew.
budding saplings and reincarnated flora,
kept dreary by steadfast deluge,
each waking hour spent in promising revery,
of cordial skies and clearer times.
solar beams with euphony of avian cries,
drowned not by sea but sweltering warmth,
barricading the subconscious to a single thought,
"I look forward to autumn, I hope it comes soon."