by Emily Curie
Young trees grow,
Then have to go.
Stores we’ve shopped
One by one have dropped.
Even though we love each pet,
Several years are all they get.
A picnic’s long anticipated
But gone when day has dissipated.
Nasturtiums cheer in orange and red;
By end of fall they all are dead.
I’ve watched it all
And know my Fall
Will surely turn to Winter days,
Yet I still love each morning’s haze,
Look forward to the coming Spring
When Nature stirs in everything.