Another Slow Start to the End

Still more dusty green than yellow,
But the aspens at altitude
Are already starting to shed.

It’s like this almost every year—
However golden they’ll become
Before going snowily bare,

They slump through a weary season
At the summer-fall transition,
When they look half-dead, not splendid,

A few flecks of yellow, more brown.
It disappoints the too-early
Leaf peepers, up on the weekend.

People can hardly be bothered
With beauty so tired and awkward.