What am I but autumn passing. I face late
sun, enjoy the warmth. Know my long shadow
drops behind. A troubadour twangs: Leaving you was easier -
I lower the volume. In the pond-side chair my posture shifts.
Few find passion in the crowded years of toiling.
Daylight slants and stars veer according to the season.
Old age comes with force
and fascination. It asks me to give
meaning to where I am. I hear parting wingbeats
across the pond. I see others join
above the river, woods, and fields.
If you ask me for the cost of life I’ve given to be
with this land
I’ll tell you I lived
long enough.