SPRING WILL NEVER COME
November 11, 2005
© Fred Dumpling. Redistribution is prohibited.
Autumn.
"Fall," they call it
When the leaves fall.
Red leaves.
The good and green gone out of them,
They fall dry and frail to the ground
And break when they're stepped on.
Next,
All of nature who are not hidden in their sorrow
And who love enough to wake
Assemble neatly for the advent of winter,
When all is still and nothing's warm.
The sky feels old and grey
And mourns for the good and green.
The winds, they wail
And the trees are silent and bare
Because the sun has lain its sweet head down;
The giver of life and love and warmth
And little flowers and fingers and toes
Has gone to sleep.
It is not an unusual event;
It's never-ending,
Always repeating
Round and round the grand chandelier
As the days begin
And the nights continue the waltz—
Or is it a polka?
Yet these stars in the black, black sky are weeping.
The shine is gone from them
Because they know that this time,
Spring will never come.