The green of spring is almost gone,
the freshness, the excitement.
Soon the world with bake
in the oven of summer,
the sidewalks will fry eggs,
and the days will steam
like a pot of hot coffee.
The parade is over,
the forsythia petals
have fallen, the blackberries
have bloomed with no winter
after their name.
We have no choice
but to get though this,
the days when dull leaves wither
and dream of their second act.