He talks like autumn—
walks like he is the breeze
that blew out the sun
and knocked down the leaves.

Winter was too quiet
and it was far too cold,
when I was defiant
and became far too bold.

So next was the spring
and I was a flower,
but I could only grow
if there were a few showers.

Summer was too strong
and I was set on fire;
the days were far too long
and the heat left me tired.

I froze in winter
and melted in the sun
and spring's far too teary
to have any fun.

But in the autumn,
when it's not too hot or cold,
that is the season in which
I want to grow old.