The sun begins to procrastinate
As her morning rise becomes late
And denouement like burning plane.
Sorrows and exams I'll endure
In midst of autumn's tantrums.
Look to take my pain in pure
Into red harvest of doldrums.
I need a holiday; alas summer hath
Already sent me his warmly bygones.
So in the crisp-chill fall's bath
Of wind and wetness, I say my bygones.
This wren's hoarse singing
Has come to hackneyed end
Temporarily like pause on
Your iPod or vinyl record.
I'll be gone for a while.
You won't notice me while
I'm gone, but if you do,
I'll surely miss you too.
-Wren
10-01-2012
