The crystal raindrops falling
and the far-off snow geese calling
sound a warning
“Summer’s drawing to a close.”
Now the Autumn leaves turn golden
and the laughing summer children
hurry while the gates stand open
for one last ride.
Soon the ponies will stand silent
shrouded in their winter wrappings,
with their panoply of trappings
hidden from admiring view.
But the children will remember
even deep in cold December
and see reflected in the embers
the flash of sparkling eyes.
Then they’ll hear the lilting music
in their minds while tapping to it
little toes will strike a rhythm
set in bold three-quarter time.
There are carousels in places
where the summer never races
to the waiting arms of winter
bright with snow.
But they’re never held more dearly
or treasured more sincerely
than those who fly so briefly
in the fleeting summer sun.
c.2010, Donna Swanson