I think of summer
as autumn moves away
opening the doors to winter.
Strong gust of November winds
blow past my shell
ripping apart my safe house
just at the start of the cold.
Summer has ended,
a season gone
but work still remains to be done.
I’ve been lazy
dancing under the sun,
now I’ll shiver and run
at the sight of the beacon,
nature’s sign of change.
I think of summer,
but summer’s gone.
I think of the next summer.
I will always think of summer.
The Wordcastle 