The trees undress like dulled commuters,

Their golden rags discarded, with no regret.

The gilded sun performs a final set,

Squirrels stash nuts like frenzied looters.

The breeze recalls old reels, summer brats

Of hangovers, parties and 6am warmth

A leaf descends, marking the darkened dawn

It lands, exhales, and joins the leafy flats.

Yet people clap for autumn’s masquerade,

Joke it’s quaint, romantic and rich with thought.

They sip their tea, ignoring the grand charade

Of life retreating, beauty overwrought.

We toast the fall, though really we’re afraid:

The year’s tired. Trading time, a last resort.