False Bloom

This is the smell of nostalgia filling my nostrils,
The smell of freshly burnt hay, a smell of late summer.
Above the traffic, birds fill the air with an evening chorus,
Thankful for a place to roost in the early budding trees,
But what fools are these to sing so early in false summer?
A season twisted by smoke
Confuses nature and senses doom.
The beauty of frozen crocuses, nipped by frost in their early bloom,
Pushed up through the frozen earth and grass to greet a ringed moon
That foretells their death.
Nesting birds, foolhardy, bring your babies down
Not moths, but frozen butterflies.
Summer's rushing vanity crushed by winter's hand
And understand this:
At our feet the blame for this twisted fate lies.
As each day the sun is forced to rise and beat through thickened air
And poison fumes, to bring us this: false bloom.