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.