A Pessimist’s Summer
The trees are fully-formed,
roots below,
green above,
and with just enough trunk
to keep them separated.
To those in their shade,
this is how it always is.
But I see the downside.
To me, summer is only fooling itself.
Fall is where the truth lies.
That’s when the dying begins,
the shedding, denuding,
until every oak and elm
stands naked
just as the bitter wind picks up
and winter falls from the sky.
I’ve learned not to enjoy transience.
Everything that could end
is over already.
poem by John Grey