Summer No Longer Clothes Itself For Me

Summer no longer clothes itself, for me: I'm always barren winter now, gone to seed. My flowers gone back to root and rot; Summer's waltzes and festive engagements Can't make fruitful my garden plot. Summer no longer invites me to dance; Alone on the sidelines, with downturned glance. Would I have chose better, with farther sight; If I'd danced with more abandon, each opening night, Instead of fear, of every morning's bare light? Summer has fruits; we take our time to choose: Reject the half ripened, and the bruised; While thinking the marketplace the only vendor, As savvy consumers; we make our best choice We never suspect age holds different joys.