this infection

Water-drops hang on the trees like leaves,
precarious above the still-wet ground.
For the lack of autumn, winter grieves
beneath the cold white snow, the grass is brown.
The lights, through branches, make a circle-shape,
the brightness hurts the eye to look at it.
The pavement cracks around a sewer-grate
that`s boarded up and now is poorly lit
and, safe behind the chinks of a stone wall,
one`s free to fall, and fall, and fall, and fall.