Stef's Super-Dramatic Teenage Poetry Corner - Episode 1

I used to write poetry all the time, to the exclusion of all else. I occasionally like to share some of it, sometimes because I'm proud of it, or because it's funny or sad, or just so that I don't lose it as I go through life and gradually misplace papers. So here's one from 17 year-old Stef:

 The Dryad Speaks  (1997)

Autumn at last,

And painfully so.

There is no way to pretend August anymore.

 Summer's vintage has ceased

To flow through the oak leaves -

Already they calculate their deaths,

Adorning themselves in crimson and gold

For the grand funerals

Of November.

Old - I am old,

Yet I cower 

As a dwarfed tree in the shadows,

Afraid to count my rings.

I remember days

When every green was an emerald - 

But you hang in my heart

Like a spider,

Snaring spindly-legged, frantic dreams,

Draining them of life.

When will the screaming saws

Spill my amber blood,

To make room

For a child's garden?

After awhile,

We cannot help but notice

The change in the light.