Clovers slowly shrink
As the first flurry glides across the sky.
Frost slaughters the land like a machete.
The marigolds are no longer so golden anymore.
Snow begins to brush along the branches of the peach tree.
Icicles hang from the iron iguana statue
As the seasons begin to merge, I look on in doubt,
Watching the final flame extinguish as I head back inside.