There is common ground between the seasons and I
Stages of everything going conclusively awry
Undergoing this divine metastasis
I view it as lacking the act of being courageous
And being even farther of described as spontaneous
But I never berated a late afternoon in September
Especially the absurd image of even knowing it was a possibility
I hope in a decade or so I will remember
Every one of these disjointed thoughts
As rapid as hummingbird wings I'll soon miss December