The beauty of the season is around us,
something making it all appear again;
call it the time of trees, impatient flowers
that burn too easily in sudden flame.
It’s all, in any case, largely unnoticed:
perhaps, a glance, or an extracted sigh,
the roving eye is on these things unfocused,
the concepts, green or floral, stimuli
providing, fading, in the small talk gone;
and only the mundane remaining, boredom
that grips elaborate flowerbeds, looks on
the face of scenic falls with blank implore.
No, in all fairness, we all love the season;
but poets strain the rhyme, and we have reason.