In Heaven, it is always autumn.
John Donne

Dear to us ever
the changes of raiment:
leaves breaking,
pod to penury.
But if it were
always autumn,
we’d sit by the lake
with no fear
of its freezing over,
nearby squirrels,
their perch unthreatened,
their food secure,
and plentiful the bees,
impenitent and princely
in their golden drone.
The sky we’d breathe
would hold us
in its grip—cool,
relentless, blue.
Like harvest sheaves,
we would brim with birds.

E. Louise Beach