We wake at night when moon is lost in cloud
and autumn wind cries softly at the eaves,
when last sad cricket sounds afraid and loud
above the whisper of the falling leaves.

The creeping clouds won't rain, just blow away.
The weeds are brown and dead and they don't care.
You want to leave, but can't find words to say.
A soundless, scentless farewell fills the air.

But springtime roses, shriveled, look like turds
and all that flashes in your eyes is ice.
When love flies south it takes away the words
to mend this mess just has too great a price.

With cup I sit, in house so ghastly still.
The fruitful summer's gone, here comes the chill.