Ah, summer how you do deceive
Warm summer days we still receive
But evening chills give us the signs
And we can read between the lines
Golfers praised that greens rolled true
But suffer now, aerated blues
The leaves on maple trees behold
A yellow, ochre, red and gold
The pretty leaves began to turn
Showed shades of brown and no return
Destined to be a young child's pile
And lastly, then, a compost pile.