Fall

The North wind is whispering of a frozen future
And the trees are turning gold, or bronze, or red.
All the plants that the gardener needs to nurture
Must be brought inside, or they will end up dead.
Humans change with the year, and this is the season
Of thanksgiving,and harvest festival, with fruits abundant
Vegetables overflowing in the shed, beyond all reason,
But the grass is turning coarse, no longer looks so verdant.
My pumpkins I will harvest and bring in from the cold,
With the year's end I grow ever more grey and old.

Dark is the night sky
Cutting is the winter wind
It is time to die.

(I have added this note as several people have picked up on the different styles. It is possible that it doesn't work because the two verses are actually different structurally. I promised to write three sad poems, in different styles, for a friend. She chose the humorous one and so I posted these here. The first verse is in sonnet form (vaguely) and the second is a haiku but the change of season connects them. I thought the opulence of the sonnet suited autumn and the sparseness of the haiku echoed the bleakness of winter. Several people have very kindly suggested I should extend the second verse but to do so I will have to change it from the form it was created as - should I do so?)