The Mournful Season

It's a mournful season, fall, a time for regrets,
For foolishly clinging to what has started
To disappear. The days now are short,
And evenings erase every hint of the heat
Of the afternoon. Soon enough, even that
Heat will be gone. Fall will grow cruel.
Then, winter will come, but one doesn't
Mourn in the winter. One can't. Everything's
Gone, and all thoughts are focused on
Trying to persevere.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 33 times
Written on 2020-10-15 at 00:47

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