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.
Autumn. Twilight. Seventy-three.
No, it’s not the end. But it’s not the beginning.
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.