The birds crow a weeping melody, trees clean of leaves.

I run my hand along the ground, the dirt kissing my sleeves.

The grass cries sweet nothings about the time we lay here last

But that time was only then, and I have to leave you in the past.

I miss when it was summer, and the trees would hold our hand

Because now cold and autumn has come, and I don’t want to stand.

Come back to me, dear summer, come back and say hello

I miss when I was happy, when everything was yellow

I tell you now, and please beware, beyond the weeping cries

Spring calls out for growing season, because everything must die.