The summer leaves me slowly, and, with grace,

I march on down the way, a careful man,

toward chancy autumn at a dapper pace,

calculating ev'ry which way I can

keep good on all the promises I've made

(over all the years) to--my self--atone

for the costumes worn and the people played

in my attempts to not feel so alone.

And, pangs of guilt, like breezes through the oaks,

play dithers on my cold, sad bones--I shed,

like sleeping trees, my leafs (my self-reproach):

"This heart will find its bliss before it's dead."

I stop, and have a gaze into the dew,

and look upon the man that I'll warm to.