This summer, the leaves are old,
Tired people in their homes.
This time, it's warm enough to hold,
The conversation on the phone.
It's sentimental, that this guitar,
Played so many false notes.
And yet, it's so, just so bizarre,
To miss some of my winter coats.
Summer is for the calm, the patient,
And so for the outrageous.
It's a time to remember the ancient,
The old, ruins of my soul.
Sometimes, it slips off my tongue,
That I'm the happiest of all.
But, it's a shock, for both of my lungs,
To feel the scent of the upcoming fall.
So it doesn't matter, the time,
The kids' laugh outside the building,
When it's so good to write, a rhyme,
When the sunset takes the anxious feeling.
