The Eye Of The Beholder Poem by Patti Masterman

Age keeps its withered fingers
Hovering over the crown of your head,
While October runs away like
Retrievers scenting a fox, somewhere
Far ahead, where the woods turn golden,
The clouds farther off, like hazy memories.

In Autumn, youth seems too irrevocable
To remember its moist fingers
And wide open eyes; better not to try

But live on breaths of cool, winding hope
That the eyes around still love us
Though they are not those eyes,

The ones in dreams, the ones that seemed to follow us
Wherever we roamed, through verdant fields
Or barren ones. Somewhere above the stars
The eye of the beholder is never clear.