Brittle Things- Poem

 

The old man sits beneath a dwindling shade

And recounts how the days have changed

And how time passes by

And soon the autumn gales shall come

And shake to wakefulness the drowsy summer hearts

And break the boughs of the maple tree

And let fall a rain of dead and brittle things.

The old man sits and ponders this.

It’s twilight, not yet the end, but far from the beginning

And his birdfriends are beginning to up and go

And his bones are starting to chill

And become brittle- boughs on a maple tree

And what could’ve been and what was and what shall be

All stop by

To say their hellos and goodbyes

And hurry away before the evening light

Fades to blue and starry sky.

Like everything will be.

Eventually.

Autumn. Twilight. Seventy-three.

No, it’s not the end. But it’s not the beginning.

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I wanted to write a poem about the end of summer (since everyone here at LAS returns to school tomorrow.) But I also didn’t want it to be literally about summer/autumn either. At least not entirely.