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.
It seems there’s nothing left but memories,
a batch of craggy limbs, discarded leaves,
and skeletons of what were brilliant trees
providing atmosphere for one who grieves.
The winds are piercing—Death, I feel thy sting
a world away from love, and miles from Spring.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Ah, the joy of aging. But each day is exciting if we are receptive. Each season is fresh and new. I love it all! Thanks for sharing your poem. I love the honesty of it. Send us more! Marilyn