there is that something changing in the air,
on my face, in my belly.
it happens only around this time
each time
I repeat this monotonous song and dance routine
to a bed of leaves
I will burrow and bury myself deep
rot
I can blame it on my over active imagination
no one to concur that I am right
about the putrid air
and encroaching deterioration
for this is the fate of those I loved
too intensely long ago.
I can pretend I am them
taking refuge
in the dark dank earth
beneath the leaves and death
alone
comfortable
unlucky fellow decides
to dig me out
and end this season.