The Mistress of Word Play

It will not be in spring, nor will it be in summer
when all these things I have known come to an end.
Sweet death shall come and claim his victory
when cooler winds of fall cause the trees to bend.

Let my last vision of this earth be in that season
as the vibrant hues of the leaves whisper good-bye.
Then as nature begins her annual autumn retreat
let it be at that approximate moment that I die.

For all things living have their day in the sunlight
but too quickly that cycle slows and is through.
My blood cools, my body wastes and diminishes,
and my mind rips, tears, and rends itself in two.

Anymore I appreciate the hearth and my bed
or a good supper shared with family and friends.
But as the flowers wither, pulverize, and fade
as autumn reappears that's when my story ends.