Autumn Poem
- Stephen B. Thomas
- Sep 26, 2019
- 1 min read
AUTUMN POEM
It's funny to me
That Autumn, it's said,
Is when things are dying
Or they're already dead.
For me, it's the Summer,
With its humidity and heat
That's just a tremendous bummer
Rather than a treat.
Summer's when I hide
In that artificially-cooled cave,
Only venturing outside
Because I'm a day-job slave.
But in the Fall, there is freedom
From a cruel, oppressive climate.
The air thins, the sun dims.
Were it marked on a page, I'd time it.
The day I tread outside and
Finally see steam in my breath:
Summer's last grains of sand
Have fallen. It's become Summer's death.
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