The Rainclouds Of Mid-To-Early Autumn Poem by John W. McEwers

It had been beautiful.
It should be.
It was Summer.

Your warmth,
Your heat,
Your extended day,
My vacation.

But the gray man of Autumn doth come.
For you,
For me,
For us all.

He comes with a raggedy, rain-soaked jacket made of tweed and hyperhumidification.
And he pan-handles for those dreams of Summer gone.
'Give me your pool parties, ' he begs.
'I need them to get me by.
I was a veteran, you see, of all life's wars,
and now I'm blind in my cloudy eyes.'

How can you say no,
You can't say no.
It's not an option.
It's off the table.
Like Summer's grace.

So take my dreams, cruel Autumn, mid-to-late.
For it is too late for my dreams of midnight.