We're caught again between the mellowed sun
and what we tend to dread, the darker times.
Our hearts, afraid that balmy times are done,
get lost in thoughts of frigid wintry climes.

Too bad, because it's now, as this year dies,
its colors are most crisp, its palettes flair.
We pluck the pear, the summer's final prize,
lean in as backyard campfires smoke our hair.

The sky is clear, no snow or sleet in sight;
its blue serves as a backdrop for the leaves.
So why allow ourselves the useless fright
of what's to come? We are our own souls' thieves.

We wring our hands, bemoan the coming cold,
and lose the Earth's best tithing, bright and bold.