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The blazing glory of the sun has gone,
No more baking in the heat.
What has become of the grassy lawn?
No longer silky under feet.
The gentle wind has turned to a gale,
Leaves whipped up; turmoil.
Skies turn black; soon there'll be hail,
Beach chairs and towels quickly recoil.
A mediocrity between two extremes,
Too hot for winter, too dark for spring,
No summer nights with glistening moonbeams,
Only dim skylines, no radiance to bring.
No time left for playing, only for work,
The chilly breeze doesn't make for much fun.
The swimming pools are now full of murk,
With all the mud it's impossible to run.
The golden leaves fall to the ground,
Drifting in the chilly air.
Floating, they make barely any sound,
Falling here, and falling there.
Nights are cool; stars are bright,
The moon is flying high.
The wind sings, outside is light,
The trees let out a sigh.
Autumn days are calm and dry,
With nothing much to do.
Autumn days are cold and wry,
But remain forever true.
Is That Winter in the Air?
Each eve the crowds do make their way,
Through Happy Valley's chill.
Alabaster, silken soft,
Doth coat each sloping hill.
There they wait with bated breath,
For midnight's clearest chime.
A cry goes out through merry crowd,
"Friends, hark! It's Advent time!"
With season's cheer they gather treats,
Then wander through the snow.
The merry lights cast patterns soft,
Creating vibrant glow.
The Money Tree draws merry crowd,
Who leave a gift or two.
Might as well just wander by,
Don't know your luck, do you?
Stockings hung each jolly eve,
With thoughts of clothes and treats.
Glacial chill creates ice rinks,
On Terror Mountain's streets.
Pets venture forth from store to store,
The snow falls, white and fair.
It may be warm when safe indoors,
But winter's in the air!
Days are waning, lightly raining,
Leaves crumble brown and fall.
Darkness comes, and autumn sleeps,
Winter shows its frosty head.
Breath is misty, the Cheery Plants are dead;
The garden lies in shades of grey and brown.
The Pebeanjays are drooping,
Hoarfrost coats the ground --
In scarves and coats, hats and gloves,
Neopia bundles up.
Shadows lengthen, warmth is gone,
Start counting, only amounting,
To the holidays ahead.
A dusky chill settles like a pall,
A great winter blanket, a snowy sheet,
Sleepy Symols dart underground,
To wake when the air is warmer now.
Little pets are tucked in bed,
Told stories by the firelight,
With chocolate and marshmallows,
And Jack Frost's sketches on the windowpane.
Days are waning, lightly raining,
Leaves crumble brown and fall.
Whisperer of Winter Winds
In a silver forest
Amidst the fluttering leaves,
A lonely silver creature sits,
Fur blowing in the breeze.
The old grey she-Lupe, silent,
Stares with glittering yellow gaze
At stars and moon and velvet sky,
And there each night she stays.
She has always been alone,
Always has, forever will be,
For when others accompany her,
Silent grows the breeze.
The mystic Lupe, of ice and flame,
Of rain, the words she knows,
She listens as the secrets are told;
By her ear, the winds doth blow.
One may catch a glimpse of her
On nights when storms are near,
For when the winds toss fierce and loud,
Their words are ever so clear.
The ancient she-Lupe, lonesome and still,
Is blessed with life long as the breeze,
For if ever comes the day winds cease to blow,
She will also cease to be.
So if you ever hear a lonely voice
Murmuring, deep in the woods,
No need to wonder who it is.
The Lupe is talking to the wind,
Its language by her understood.
I don't like summer, I'm glad it's over,
No more nights too hot to sleep,
No more threats of sunburn, sunstroke,
No more children screaming on the beach
Of Mystery Island where we vacationed,
Hotel crowded and filled with noise.
Every picnic, Petpetpets invaded,
Every barbecue more work than joy.
But lo! The cooling breath of autumn
Clears the summer's haze and heat;
Cascading leaves of rust and ochre,
A soothing crunch beneath my feet.
I don't like winter, not looking forward
To storms of snow and hail and sleet,
Of days too cold to leave my Neohome,
Of cabin fever too deep to treat.
I do not care for sledding, skiing,
Shivering atop a snowy hill.
At the bottom awaits a bitter Borovan,
The only cure for bone-deep chill.
But lo! The refreshing air of autumn
Draws one out into the streets,
Comfy in a chunky sweater.
Pink cheeks on everyone you meet.
I don't like springtime, ne'er yet a fan
Of gloomy skies and pouring rain,
Of gingerly avoiding puddles,
But stepping in them all the same.
Fields are muddy with winter's remainder,
And yet they in Meri Acres Farm
Pull their ploughs through muck and mire;
Spring rain is the farmer's anxious alarm.
But lo! The laden fields of autumn,
Thick with produce, trees with fruit,
A season of promised rest and reward
A time of thanksgiving forsooth.
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