Strange that, in this season of slow death
When ripeness over-blooms into decay,
I should feel a calm, an ease of breath
That proves elusive of a summer’s day.
A surer beauty rests in autumn’s gold,
For one whose golden hair has long gone gray,
Than profligate summer’s verdure can enfold,
Or perfumed promises of spring convey.
Autumn is a season of repose,
Reflection on what was and might have been,
Acceptance of what is at cycle’s close -
Entropic, certain winter, sovereign.
All enterprise exhausted, naught remains
Save yielding to the grasp of golden chains.