my summer of discontent
was a series of salad days
better judgement left green
on the vine never to ripen
now has come autumn
and with it burning leaves
world winding down to
winter’s embrace of death
would that naivete could
blaze along with the foliage
smudging the air with dusky
scents and smoke screens
will ice lock up summer’s anger
freezing its bitter life away
’tis a consumation devoutly wished
although i do like salad
