To Autumn, one once wrote
Knowing a cold end was coming
As it had before
I am no stranger to this feeling
I, too have felt it before
And yet
I can never bring myself
To prevent its gelid promise
From perturbing my peace
Even now, as warmth still kisses my skin
And for maybe the first time I am happy,
At times through autumn I am helpless to hear
The laughs of dear friends,
And the grace of their kindness
As the coming stillness robs me of sound
It is not yet my time to mourn, so
Why must happiness sting with melancholy?
Where are the songs of spring?