Of all seasons Fall's the saddest,
its taedium vitae, its tornworn swink.
Chill invites the dying of things,
its invitation cards await.

So many believe the opposite is true,
Fall swivets, invigorates,
but it is unswimmable to me,
I pass through half-awake,

yet I love winter
because spring is coming,
summer's smorgasbord's around the corner.
Winter is acceptable and cold,

winter is you, quiet lord.
Give me any fruit. I'll eat it, gladly.

From Balefire, by Star Black (Painted Leaf Press, NYC 1999)

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