Summer's End (Sonnet)

The summer is about to make its end.
The branches are to decorate their leaves,
the cooling air might chilly secrets lend,
and we'll decide to lengthen our short sleeves.
But as for now, the season still exists
where we can while away the lasting days.
Where apples ripen under the sun's kiss,
and children idle under its bright rays.
The geese have not yet started winging south,
with verbose exclamations bursting forth.
They hear it from their birdish word of mouth
to keep their verdant refuge in the north.
And so I, too, will summer's passage wend
until, indeed, it makes its vibrant end.