The colors of Summer--
of grasshoppers and of rain
and of every rocket that climbed
the skies of July--
I gathered them for you
to burn in Autumn's bonfires.
Tomorrow, they are smoke
and ashes, hanging in the still air,
cold and colorless as the morning
of the first freeze.
Stephen Brooke ©2004
not particularly about anything, just an 'autumn poem.'