The frost withered remains of summer’s hope,

have already yielded their lot,

Turning in to lick their wounds,

and count the things they got

The seasons offer no guarantees,

no permanent hand to hold

When the sun is high, it’s time to play,

when it’s gone, it’s cold

There’s not much time to stop and stare,

to wallow in what’s been,

For life calls on and demands its due,

before the turning in.