The Dregs of Summer

The crowd has gathered –

It is only days until Autumn makes his triumphant appearance,

With wreaths and garlands of gold adorning his comely head.

We anxiously await his inauguration,

As we wave good riddance to his predecessor,

Suffering now the dregs of Summer.

She has given us her best, but her reign is nearing its uninspiring end.

Fruits have ceased their bearing, and vegetation has withered and withdrawn.

Hibernating underground; soothing, placating.

Pool gates are closed, and children have returned to their cells,

But the temperatures deceive us.

Searing heat, drying and suffocating the last drops of life and vitality from the vine

As we wait.

We yearn.

For a different kind of harvest; a new kind of wine.

We wait for Summer to take her final breath.  To die.

And we openly applaud her passing.

Celebrating as her rival steps up and establishes his term.

We hold our breath as we crane our necks to witness whether she will step down peacefully

Or leave us violently; clinging and grasping for one final, desperate but feeble display of vanity.

All the while, we ignore the fact that our new king will abandon us in similar fashion –

And he will leave our beds before we awaken from our drunken sleep.

Not even casting a glance in our direction as we alone face usurpation by the cruelest of all kings.

Leaving us

Bitter. Empty. Hungry.

Cold.

When we will wait.

And yearn.

For Queen Summer.

Harkening back to her warmth,

Her luscious fruits,

Her promises whispered, sweet kisses, and her carefree embrace.

As we long for her glorious return.