Lines Written with Futile Hope

You are as real as the moonlight on my hand.
Doesn't it feel beautiful.
So sentimental,
But not enough.
Lamentation for the day that has passed,
The one that was young for a while,
But realized that it could last for so short a time.
A small while,
As the tides rushed the shore
And overwhelmed the coasts
Showing clouds of dying color
Through its liquescent window.
Time, minutes of sadly minute length,
Evacuates the clouds from the sky,
Defeats the bluebird's song and the
Evergreens' everlasting effervescence;
The presence within the atmosphere is now gone.

When Autumn comes today
Will it show colors?
Will the dying tree,
In it's last flourish for light and glory,
Refuse me the yellows and reds that would line these long streets,
As I keep the aqua-tainted ocean in eyesight?
Transitioning into a biting frost,
All I can see are the lines of smoke-entwined snow on the pavement,
And bare oaks of brown,
Swelling with the scent
Holding its breath
Until I pass, and then exhales.
Animals burrow into the gardens that don't provide,
Into homes that don't exist.

The day is broken,
While I sit among the pasture of leaves
Freshly matted down by my own steps.
I wish to mend it
But my fingers are decrepit and mangled
From brushing them through miles of wilted grass and lonely fences.
Healed just a bit,
I smile when the sun turns red.
So simple, it sprays a mist of rose within the sky.
But I turn to the Eastern shore,
With dejection fastened to the heart.
And hope for more.