Days are blue and golden,
and the air refreshes
with sweater chill or windbreaker breeze,
foretelling nights when warmth shall bleed
upward toward merciless stars,
and mornings glower
under snow-heavy brows
with deadly wind
shaking naked trees.
Summer was squandered
as though we were billionaires of time,
and now the leaves are beautiful
and dying.
Wind will drive them
down darkened streets.
The afternoon is blue and golden,
orange and red,
but darkness rushes toward us
with the turning of the world.