Winter Comes

The leaves are brightly dying,
In desperate, festive hues;
New hats and coats are lying
Along the church’s pews.

And you and I, in summer dress,
Are drifting through the fall;
Not speaking what our hearts confess,
In frantic hope we stall.

But frost will not be bargained with,
And fate will not be shy,
And having nursed a tender myth,
We weep to watch it die.

Our long agreements splinter;
Cold armies brain their drums.
We gird our souls for winter,
And winter comes.