Summertime

The pure, gentle, golden sunshine of the late afternoon,
So beautiful, and warm to the touch,
Why does it have to end so soon,
When I want it to stay, so much.

Summertime is gone, with fleeting last rays,
Winter is coming in such a rush,
Shorter now are becoming the days,
And longer is the moonlight's touch,

But now it is not but fall,
Winter is coming, but still held at bay,
Though we all still hear it's icy call,
It is not snow, it is leaves; falling this day,

The woodstoves will soon be burning; sending swirling smoke into the sky,
And almost every winter that comes I find myself asking "why",
Why the seasons seem to be constantly changing their face,
And why does time move... at so fast a pace.

(c) Luna 2006

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