An old man's Autumn

An old man's Autumn

Here I sit, withered, old, gone-by

Thinking of all my yesterdays

While the leaves fall out of place and time and

The wind whistles like age-old wedding bells.

Here I sit, remembering, frowning, thinking:

Her sweet smell, her soft hands

The silent footsteps when she walked

The words she whispered when she went away.

Here I sit, crying, coughing, calling out

Reaching out to things unseen,

Grasping hold with tightly shut eyes

Hearing again the awful sound, of my own deep-rooted voice.

Here I sit, cold, smiling, content

Again hearing the dove sing in the wind

Each Sunday after service in the old church

Each forgotten day of the week.

Here I sit, on a wooden chair

Creaking with complaint against my fragile body

Under the garden tree

Where Annabelle let go of me.

Here I sit, ready, willing, and prepared

The hands of the tree branches standing half naked yet proud

As the wind blows harshly against them

As the wind blows the life right out of me.