In the woods today
I smell pungent decay
Riches of summer last
Breathing their final gasp
Infusing this dirt and soil
With fruit of tireless toil
Under days of sun and rain
Across hill and ridge and plain
I hear their voices sing
In these early days of spring
And in the timbre of their song
Hints of melancholy long
For those suns of summer past
Whose sweet joys could never last
Poetry and Verse 