it's (inside) me

  Perhaps 'twas destiny that stole its youth,
Autumn was never privy to the truth,
grown barren by He who weaves,
too early for snow, too late for leaves.

Oft it wore a counterfeit smile,
imploring the bounties of Summer wild,
to allay its advance from green to brown,
before its final journey to the ground.

Promises of slow demise never kept,
as red Autumn shed, she plaintively wept,
till Winter perplexed queried,
why Fall was so wanton-wearied?

'Willst thou then lend me snow? '
Winter alarmed at this ignoble show,
stripped off Autumn's remaining bower,
she lay undressed, like a jilted lover.

Yet 'ere His Worship, tipped the Horn
fruits ripened unafraid of being summer born,
Earth bloomed into corn's ears,
Rain fell to soothe the season's fears.

Still today we hear the Horn play,
in its music we see the well-fed sway,
and sleep 'neath a mellow Sun over field,
amidst once vagrant, now fragrant Autumn yield.