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.