Autumn Melancholy

The wind in eerie cadence
is moaning round my door,
As if to gently tell me
the summer days are o're.

I sit and watch each falling leaf
as they go wafting by,
But do not seem to understand
just why things have to die.

It is a plan beyond our reach
in which we have no say,
We merely climb, the tread-mill of time,
and await the final day.