TO THE BONE

Autumn was a brazen hussy holding nothing back.
No one, not even myself was prepared for such an attack,
Of bully winds and raining falling far heavier than need be.
It was summer suffering from the cold printing out her eulogy.

Sorrowful was the summer that leaves had lost their place.
Clouds would lift occasionally to highlight a welcome space.
The garden kept right on breathing life and leisure as it stood,
And sent its message loud and clear across the neighborhood.

It wasn't merely that the morning clouds would block the sun.
Rain became the usual fare depressing everyone.
September succumbed to October perched victorious on its throne,
While the winds of autumn stripped proud sycamore trees naked to the bone.

Robert Reynolds