The Last Season

The Last Season

About the time the air gets cold

The coats are stripped of young and old

Bare they stand against the sky

Exposed before the wandering eye

Occasionally, I think I see them shiver

Or hear them sigh, like a lonely river

Standing in the cold with only their bark

No cover for the Robin, no song of the Lark

Hope seems lost or any sense of reason

With no idea how long will be the season

Oh, to ask a question if they only could

Has the lush green gone away for good?

And yet I will endure it, if I should

Until alas I lay down, a cold, dead, wood