There are no daffodils to sing for
Like the poet did once
The rustic trees stand there
Barely any leaves to pluck from the sky
Just weeds and the frost
To kill mosquitoes and hiberbate the bees
While the birds fly to the south
The squirrels do their hunting waltz
It’s the end of summer
And the cozy nights are here to cherish
As I am alone writing
Another sonnet about autumn
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Daffodils remind me of nights I now long for. My situation perfect, my mental on the wrong floor. Thanks for the inspiration friend.