This End Down

To all the autumn leaves in climates further north than mine;
To fifty-nine degrees and to the lonely stands of pine;
I address this, my diatribe.

The fall of leaves on browning grass,
as winter peeks its head to test
the world’s awaiting readiness
for snow and for the cold;
poetic subjects, if you’re stationed there where winter’s been so bold.

And me, where every day is sun and
ninety-five degrees of fun,
where gentle gusts of wind are just
as seldom seen as changing leaves;
and every trace of autumn only magnifies its loss.

Damn the gentle cooling breeze
and drifting piles of red-orange leaves,
the tunnels formed by arching trees
that permeate my memories;
for memories are only what we’ve had to leave behind.

Forget the fields of pumpkins,
and of rolling golden grasses;
they only make you discontent
desiring what you’ve not been sent.
Images of autumn only make your summer stronger.

To all of those who love to see the foliage catch on fire,
to smell the smoke from fallen leaves that burn upon a pyre:
Stop dreaming.

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I know the rhyming’s cheesy. Sorry. It just happened. I didn’t even try. That’s how I am. Can you tell I miss autumn? That’s two in a row about it. No blackberries, this time. Try for factual inaccuracies: pine (what does it have to do with fall?), pyre (leaves aren’t on pyres), rolling grasses (the fields roll, not the grasses). I still enjoy it.