The mulberry leaves turn yellow-green,
So pretty and transient
The sycamores just cover everything in a utilitarian brown.
Oh I miss you.
Every thought of you peels my heart like an apple,
The pain so sharp that it almost makes me beautiful again,
My skin as white
The maples are shockingly heartless,
Draping themselves in such a shameless, compelling, and unforgettable red
Just before they grow bored
And turn to naked bones,
Oh I am the Queen Of All Fools,
And yet even I know the supreme idiocy of trying to put the leaves back,
To retrieve June
With the first snow in the air,
The train is at the station.
The duchesses, with all their trunks and hat boxes have boarded.
The bell clangs,
Summer is gone,
And nothing you love is ever coming back.
It is the victory of the sycamores--
You on the platform in the dusk,