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.