The flags of summer have all flown
And now are strewn about my home;
Begonias lay, all drabs and grays,
Suffering in degrading ways.
Some subtle portal called my own
Through which the sunshine stabbed and played
Is rayless, dark, with doom foretold
Of slush and sleet and snow and cold.
The season slips towards decline
With brakes stuttering in the slide;
Screeching shrilly, joy-dead drunks
Hunker down and enjoy the ride.
Yet there are roots and dreaming trunks
Patiently waiting to revive.
