Once every year there is an eventide,
As we tiptoe or sprint towards decline.
The whilom of wonder begins to wane,
When Notos decides to retire the reign.
That draught that night begins enticing,
The remains of days, remain inviting.
Still, we know the bitters fast approaching,
As the season sets the final closing.
Boreas starts bruiting upon the breeze,
His edict for red and gold coloured leaves.
They’ll drift from dryads as gentle whispers,
Oft seen on rivers and sung bout their sisters.
The falling of the Northern solstice,
Will scale around, and ring their bodice.
Telling tales of season in choir so flawless,
The dryads and their hymn of August.