The daffodil says it best.
It’s butter yellow crisps into brown
ready to match a dirt grave.
‘Summer is over’ it tells me.
Stalks me with this fact
along each row of my flower beds.
The Evergreens look the other way,
retract bloomless branches
from their seasonal companions,
worried next year they’ll be out:
that Nature grows envious of luck,
their constant support from Earth.
When evening comes
I lie with the dark in gratitude,
for it hides the lack of colour.