The good of fall is that there are no pests,
But only air and bare trees to provide.
For needs my eyes are satisfied
By none but summer sun high crests.
The leaves are spinning softly, thrown,
As would the life that once was strong:
It fell from high to low and now is dirt,
The dirt which now is cold and hard and wrong.
But I assume that there, within nothing,
Is reason, purpose, for my world to change.
I'm sure that spring will come, to bang and ring,
A declaration loud with birds to range.
Until then, time will turn, to woe and woe,
But spring I look as my content is low.