The sky cried today as if mourning the summer's passing into the cool hands of the naked tree
alone in the browning field upon an endlessly wheeling Earth.
The day has a sadness about it, as if bourne upon the fog and deposited in thick layers over my eyes and ears,
silencing falling leaves and I am shadowed in the light through your window.
It is as if the day is dying, fading summer into autumn,
an old man in his wisdom fading into memory and the innocent knowledge that
this is how it's supposed to be.
It is dark and fullness, and I tilt my head to taste the air, feel the drizzle on my face,
a disconnected connection to the oily pavement underfoot.
It is a day that deserves a good cry,
but tears cannot penetrate the heaviness pressing clouds so close to the ground.
And so the sky cries instead.
