When I look behind me
through the dust-covered window,
down upon the frost-topped grass,
I see oak leaves dropping one-by-one,
each a gentle touch of cold hands,
a tap on the shoulder, signaling
another cycle of life is ending.
The silver trees’ niggardly scatter
of their lifeless copper reminds me
of misers confronted by their mortality,
prompting an uncomfortable distribution
of their wealth to the cold, unloved needy,
an apprehensive hedging of bets
against a hot hereafter.
I’ll be the poor collector of these riches,
each the recollected hopes, the disappointments,
the punches, the caresses, the love I’ve given,
exchanged or dropped in blind ignorance,
each a look over my shoulder through
the dusty window of time in the fading
light of the ice-crowned autumn of my life.