The Pessimist Prepares For What May Well Be His Last Winter Poem by Ernest Hilbert

I have been released into harsh Autumn
And witness ash of cruel light on skylines.
Dusk draws in fast; dawn bears barbarous frost.
The earth, tilting on its axis, will come
To its winter, while I expire in lines.
I pour a short glass, talk of what is lost,
Small thoughts, as pine smoke, leaves tugged loose by wind.
I simmer soups, light candles for the dark,
Swaddle myself in long scarves and jacket.
My heart, besieged at its peak, will not mend.
I set out to visit the empty park,
Breathe fierce evening, stroll one slow circuit.
Autumns return, but I can only spend
My seasons, as small fires, toward my end.