September Afternoon

Even the rain is old.
Its drops no longer dance, but sag
against old walls and trees that wish to die,
to cast off all their green vitality,
for gloom is no regret, but coveted;
the molding leaves already down
are avatars of gods we buried,
left behind
in old brown faded towns
that cherish their demise,
and cling to crumbling history
like that old rain that stains my memories
and hastens my decay.
~