This cool summer morning,
Walking down the street.
I press puffy white clouds,
Tall trees and bountiful blooms,
Into my memory like a scrapbook.
I don’t know how many of these days are left for me,
but I want to remember as many and as much as possible.
_________________­_

It’s something we all have to deal with - eventually.
I’m old,
I’m over.
People call me ma’am.
I feel like a forgotten toy no one wants to play with anymore.
__________________­__

Why does summer drain me so?
I feel depleted, and only return to life
when autumn comes.