Decay

You can see it in the rusting of the trees,
in the ever-slower shuffling of the streams.
You can feel it in the way we stay abed,
wrapped against the early morning cold.
You can hear it in the forest's creaking limbs
and ever-trembling, sighing, palsied leaves.

The world is getting old.

We fight it off with pungent scents,
with cinnamon and nutmeg and pine,
but autumn rain puddles into wet mildew.
We ignore it with talk of spring, pretending
that our memories of summer are unfaded.
We push it back with rich tastes,
with sharp cranberries and crisp apples,
but we cannot stop it, this falling apart,
this final heavy turning of the year.

The world is getting old.

Do not hide from her, here, inside.
Please do not let her age alone.
Let us walk long, walk slow,
talk soft, and thank her for her time.
We will show her young hope
and younger life, and smile together.

The world is getting old.



Note: This is a poetic form called the bop. I discovered it with this example bop by Robert Brewer. It's excellent, and I suggest you take a look! 
A bop involves 3 stanzas of 6-8-6 lines and a 1-line refrain. Meter and rhyme scheme are up to you.