The death of Summer

She lay there in my arms.
The dying light,
the chilling air,
the fleeting wind,
But even so, I held on.
Refusing to look away from the golden eyes of the sun.
So she remained
-dying
And there I knelt
-watching.
Her eyes changing.
The sun flickering into fiction.
Blonde hair to bristling brown.

I almost begged her to stay.
That would have been selfish.
The world must move on.
And so must I.
Albeit, with shards of ice falling from my eyes.

This dark permanence should never be permanent.

So sudden! The hand that gripped mine.
Colder but still infused with the warmth of familiarity.
My eyes now see dead leaves and barren trees staring back at me.

The winding paths of these months have now burnt the mouth of the moth.
I gazed, confused.

Autumn was born.