Off-Color

Past Thursday: autumn wind blew in from the west —
A leaf ballet with twinned moist and fresh scents expressed,
Blowing from the forest, leaving vast, grand trees undressed,
Showing a glorious golden pinnacle on sandy leaves abreast.
Your leaves are now a quarter, Mother Nature, do you suggest?
Your skirt is getting shorter and I'm afraid I must protest.
You see, madam, this year I've got a spine,
And I can clearly hear the bees on the decline,
And when I polled the dandelions, they numbered only nine.
While leaves of gold seem lively fun, their encumbrance is malign:
They bring the cold and frost and snow that make my cheer decline,
So if you'd uphold the summer, please, you'd simply be divine.