David Nelson Bradsher
The breeze is urgent, crisp, and like a stream
of consciousness that musses thinning hair.
Autumn arrives—she settles like a dream
that brightens life before the trees go bare.
I trudge the lanes of age—the oaks get older
as I proceed along my scenic stroll
until I reach the Winter, stark and colder—
a man who’s reached the coring of his soul.