Seasonal depression

Tourists leave their rubbish behind,

embellishing the shore,

before the lake claims its new treasures.

Smoke signals reborn from old ashes

perfume the empty streets.

The smell of silence

brings me solace.

I walk in peace,

kept company by the occasional stray,

now starved of love,

attention,

treats.

Golden trees,

slowly stripping their garments

until they become a memoir.

I take life from them

a leech—

feeding on abandoned hopes

of those who love summer.