Come September and he steps aside,
From his hasty slumber or its pretense,
For now he has more to worry,
Than the flurry of needs - incumbent,
On him; Not for salvation! Not him,
A whim perhaps but he worries now,
With a withered brow for food,
Least for his appetite or even trite -
Trifle stale bread for his even pale,
Fading mirror of a brother that stands,
Beneath his frivolous shadowed form...
And winter steps in with a playful breeze,
With ease he can no more saunter,
Or falter for now he seeks a blanket...
His form with the yellow flowers -
Towers with tense eyes. He looks -
At the skies, hoping to sell the bunch,
Of daffodils that would get him close,
To the hope of the warmth required,
The ire of fate looking down at him...
His timid form standing beneath,
The lemon tree, fists held tight...
Holding back the dusk yet again,
For he cannot go back with the flowers...