The Autumn of My 57th Year

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.