My but Summer dies with style and grace
so noble in her passing
no loud wails to mark the end,
just the husky song of the cold West Wind.

Summer, once a warm and lovely thing,
slow and easy in her way,
so vibrant this April child.
It's sad that September makes her old and mild.

Summers first breath was taken in Spring.
She threw tantrums across the land
and then shared her joy and truth
by lighting the fires and fanning the flames of youth.

In full bloom, Summer gave peace and love
to every living thing...
and the long warm days were kind
to all but Summer;
though she didn't mind.

Autumn stands witness to the fall of Summer.
Trees shed their leaves like widowed squaws
in mourning. Leaves turn gold and die
and barren limbs stand gray against the sky.

Birds lose heart and fly away to escape
the pain of Summer's passing.
No loud wails to mark the end,
just an ashen sky, a naked land, and the cold west wind.

And then December, standing at the foot
of Summer's bed, sprinkles snow
upon her chill wracked form...
and Summer dies quietly. She was old and worn.