Sonnet

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thy visage greens only when thou art sick,
And I believe ’twould not suffice to pick
A season so revoltingly cliché.
If any time of year does correspond
To thy brown eyes and berry-colored blush
(Those features yourn which do make my pulse rush)
’Tis autumn. When our countryside hath donned
Her colors, hues of alarming passion,
And hath assumed your wise, poetic air,
Then I can breathe (it seems) the love affair
Betwixt thy earth aflame and my skies ashen.
Thy soul surpasses June, July and all
So far, it lands in both my heart and fall.