As I walk under the hot sun
I think of autumn, just begun
And reflect upon sweet new wine
Not on inevitable decline.
Indian summer warms me still
There is no hint of winter’s chill –
I bow in life’s ever-green shrine
Not in inevitable decline.
True, the season will soon turn grey
As shorter grows each passing day
Leaves will fall but I will not pine
Not for inevitable decline.
In this season of decline, sing
About joys of eternal spring
Think of young lovers still entwined
Not of inevitable decline.
© G.s.k. ‘15