Enter The Poet - With The Sting Of Fall

Fall of the Year

The air is not bitter, but there seems to be a sting.
These are the last days of warmth, until the spring.

There's a touch of sorrow, tangled with bitter-sweet.
There's a loss of glow, from everyone you may meet.

The land seems to be perishing, and no longer growing.
There is no planting of seed, and no more mowing.

The leaves have turned brown, and falling from the trees.
No picnics, no ants, and no no buzzing of honeybees.

Soon there will be snow, and then the season of cheer.
So I always have mixed feelings, this time of the year