Fall would follow summer,
a too affectionate and whimpering dog, through ages
of excited apostasy–the apostate, Fall–
and we would ooooh and aaaah
through the beauty of dying so slowly,
voyeurs to all manner of unashamed flora
exposing to us their seed-bare glory
as they heralded that true death (you know that
death that hurries over the backs
of scentless winds).
But summer, tired of being followed,
filed for a restraining order.