SUMMER’S THICK GREENERY

IS RECEDING.

AUTUMN HAS NOT ARRIVED

BUT I SEE HER PEEKING

THROUGH THE TINY DOOR WINDOW.

 

FADED GREEN

AND DULL YELLOW FOLIAGE

CLUSTERS AMONG THE TREES.

 

HIDDEN ARE THE LEAVES

KISSED

IN FLAMING REDS

AND FIERY ORANGES.

 

DAMP AND CHILL

IS THE BREEZE

THAT CHUGS UP

FROM THE HOLLOWS

 

AND LIGHTLY STIRS

THE TUMBLING LEAVES

AS THEY DROP TO DANCE

BUT ONLY LIGHTLY.

 

DISTANTLY I HEAR

THE RUMBLING DRONE

OF A RIDING LAWN MOWER.

 

I SIT IN MY GAZEBO

SOAKING IN

THE DYING RAYS

OF A PALE SUN

 

WATCHING

THE SLOW

BUT STEADY MARCH

OF THE SEASONS,

LAMENTING THE LOSS OF WARMTH

THAT ONLY A MONTH AGO

WAS MY COMPLAINT.

 

I SEE IN MYSELF A PARALLEL.

NOW I UNDERSTAND

THE SAD HUSHED WHISPERS

OF THE LEAVES AND TREES.

 

JUST AS THEY

ARE NOT AT

THE END OF THE CYCLE

 

BUT FEEL ITS STEALTHY APPROACH,

SO TOO,

DO I THINK UPON THE COMING

OF MY OWN AUTUMNAL DAYS

AND THE NEARING OF WINTER.

 

MY FIFTH DECADE

ON THIS BLUE AND GREEN BALL

THAT HANGS ON NOTHING

AT THE CENTER OF STARS

THAT DIFFER FROM GLORY TO GLORY

 

IS SHIMMERING

ALONG THE EVENT HORIZON

OF MY OWN LIFE.

 

LIKE A WARY ASSASSIN

IT CREEPS EVER FORWARD

CONCEALLED IN THE SHADOWS.

 

WHO KNOWS

WHEN HE WILL ARRIVE

OR HOW LONG

THE WATCHERS WILL DETER HIM?

 

WILL TWO OR THREE

DECADES MORE BE GRANTED

OR ONLY A FEW SHORT BREATHS?

 

FIERY PASSION OF YOUTH

HAS EBBED FROM MY BONES.

 

YET LIFE STILL SMOULDERS SOFTLY

LIKE SCANT ROSIE HANDFULLS OF COALS

THAT REMAIN

FROM A ONCE ROARING,

CRACKLING,

SNAPPING OAK

AND PINE CAMPFIRE.

 

UNLIKE MOST PEOPLE MY AGE,

AS IN MANY WAYS

I’VE LED A SHELTERED LIFE,

NUMEROUS ARE THE EXPERIENCES

THAT I HAVE NOT SNIFFED,

TOUCHED

OR TASTED.

 

MY ADVENTURER’S GEAR

IS OLD AND WORN,

BUT THE LEATHER

IS STILL SERVICABLE,

EVEN THOUGH IT CREAKS

IN A WAY DIFFERENT

FROM WHEN IT WAS NEW.

 

I HAVE CAMPED

IN THE FOOTHILLS

LONG ENOUGH.

 

I HAVE ENJOYED

MY STAY

AT THIS FINE WAYSIDE.

 

OFF I GO

TO THE FAR BLUE MOUNTAINS,

TO SLOWLY,

GENTLY

BREATHE IN THE SCENT

OF WAYWARD PINES

AND TASTE

THE COLD CLEAR WATER

OF SHOOTING CREEK.

 

AND I GO NOW,

FOR IF I AWAIT THE DAWN,

I’LL FIND REASONS

TO PUT OFF MY JOURNEY

UNTIL I HAVE FORGOTTEN

MY DECISION TO GO.

 

WTO 9.24.2011