Year's End

By Black C. Caviar

From dear time the grapevine falls

and sags its rotting end,

of the green there's nothing left,

and to mulch it descend.

The leaves tell a new story,

the fall a spiral wend,

through the air a pirouette,

to a grave of earth blend.

The sun blinks a bleary sigh,

and night's iron gaze extend.

To their holes the critters sleep,

through weather's colder trend.

The world dwindles a'slumber,

a flick'ring candle-end,

and whoosh, it's gone, won't come back,

'til fresh bloom spring portend.