Sweet flowers, in drying, dying down,
The grasses,
forgetting their blades,
Consenting to brown.
We chill out,
all crisp crumbs.
The grass,
forgetting their blades, Consenting to brown.
The grasses,
consenting to brown.
We chill out,
all crisp crumbs.
I am aware there is winter to heed.
There is no warm house that is fitted with
my need.
The sun stays,
and birds continue to sing.
It is summer gone, that I see.
Summer gone.
Sweet flowers, in drying, dying down,
The grasses,
forgetting their blades,
Consenting to brown.