Zinnia

Drooping heads of varied hues, Loll in sorrow in the tepid breeze, The enchantment of summer has passed away. The early November air is crisp, It gives prelude to the coming death of winter, The blossoms gently mourn its advance. The petals drift softly to the earth, Colored tears in remembrance of warm days past, The birds continue singing as before. How can unremitted sorrow be assuaged When the Monarch abandons to the South With the softness of touch once imparted? Vestige of fervent warm day glory, Come now the sweet taste of death, To be reborn when the spring comes again.