Green leaves
that were pristine in spring
Are torn to
tatters
But the late
September day,
Nearly resembling,
The welcome
warmth of May,
Seems all
that matters,
Though should
I stoop to pluck
An autumn
aster
I’d wish I
had the luck
To rise a
little faster,
And roses
that were once like girls
New and
tightly furled
Now
resemble, truth to tell,
Old women
with their face lifts gone to hell.