O Fall, My Dear Soul!

Prelude (before I play):

A poet places words
On top of wordless things
And so, is often sad.

Lude (now I play):

O Fall, my dear soul!
Only one breath of the season is needed
And I am young again.
No, not just young: little.
Afraid and bold and full
Of joys.

O Fall, my dear soul!
Awaken as things begin to die
To who you were in yesteryear
To who you long to be anew.
Certain and fast and true
Like frost.

O Fall, my dear soul!
The smell of you is people and places and past.
Faithful, tried, and true.
You leave me lost in "might've been;"
"Will be" seems lost to me again
And fleeting.

O Fall, my dear soul!
Of joys,
Like frost
And fleeting.
Of joys like frost and fleeting.

Postlude (after I have played):

And again, the poet places words
And muddies beauty
And is sad.