chances missed- they shrivel to gall.
Rosy hips that swelled and bloomed
Wrinkle and blacken; their flash of lipstick red
an aging doxy’s deceit; rotten, obscene close to.
The season’s settling back to reassuring gloom:
the vibrant cheer of the high end of the year
exhausts with the pressure to move forward, to do.
The heavy sky squats down again
and the never-drying puddles in the lane
are stirred to brown by the assaulting rain
which spits its contempt for the passive soil,
absorbing and absorbing
till it can’t hold back tears,
and trickles and floods its dejection
into streams and drains,
bearing the broken flotsam of dying trees
and discarded trash on their final journeys.
Ash leaf and twig sigh their way to soggy decay
Borne along with a sweet paper’s once-bright promise.