Fragment

The moaning, howling wind tosses the leaf-remnants

Of summer, fighting to tear them precipitate

From their branches, and cast them forlorn

On the shuddering ground.

A million lost voices wail their lament into the storm-face,

Sobbing and crying, begging to be found,

To garner comfort and acceptance before the summer

Disintegrates and shatters into the greys and rustic

Hues of autumnal death and decay.

No season of fruitfulness heralded here,

Rather the rain washed grief of rotting leaves

And broken twigs, caressed by dying grass

And the last gasping sobs of summer days.

(c) 2ndwitch, 01/09/13