Amy's Passing

It's Indian Summer again today.
It fools the grass, but not the trees.
The trees roots know a deeper way.
They feel winter touch the breeze,
Know this warmth's not long to stay.
Perhaps the grass they envy though,
So happy in what moments bring,
While they must take things deep and slow;
Wondering why the song birds sing,
When all too soon will come the snow.
I think of you most all this day.
Like the trees, I dread the cold...
The time you waste away.
My light grows dim, and I grow old.

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