The Extinguished Festival

From the northern hills to the glimmering southern piers. I have tirelessly tread with little fuss. For the hustle of folks, the multiplying coins in my wallet, and sight of eloquent women. I am not one to argue. Yet the swift passing of days has left me in lament. A scar that shall not leave for seasons. The touch of a cascading sun. The skies open and stars reach forth. The fleeting warmth of a saturated breeze. The ending of Summer unlike another, but recurring just the same. What does the forecast say for me? Will I tread lightly as I walk? Will the clouds be merry? Will you stay longer? Tell Autumn to wait at the door I am not ready for change. If words nor hand can stop you then I only ask this. How will you leave? Any parting words to console my heart? Will there be a stage for your finale? Will the flowers graciously bloom, insects echo at noon, and birds sing a lullaby to soothe my grieving heart? Send word of your return as the days and night shall pile below my eyes. Seasons cast in the safety of my shack. I’ll sit aside the window waiting for your return.