The golden evening sunshine glorifies the Autumn;
Vibrant, proud and regal.
It shakes its mane back and sits with its chest high,
Quite aware it is admired.
But the haughty basking stage is short-lived.
Chill sweeps down the mountainside,
Repressing Autumn's power, wringing it dry and draining it of color,
Humbling it to the brittle, washed-out state the rest of the world has succumbed to.
And we, powerless subjects to this new host,
Drop our eyes and respectfully murmur that this is just
As we retreat into the stale, manufactured comfort of heated houses
With bitter thoughts towards that snuffer of life,
There to hibernate in monotony
Until color graces