The grass has grown old outside,
its hair turned from its youthful color
to something like the dormant straw
that barely grows atop my head.
The leaves, what once-legion few remain,
skip about, carried by breezes
swirling away from their old directions
to something colder, darker.
When some of the brown pages catch
in the pale, sleeping blades,
they shiver and sing the song
of a seasonal endtime.
More and more I have such thoughts
spiraling around my head.
Close enough to touch,
but not substantive enough to grasp.
So many now crumble into dust
like dried leaves in a young man’s fists.
But when the grey straw captures one,
I caress it, put it in a special place
away from the endtime songs.
Such once-green memories
of this man’s days, mercurial,
though inexorably dimming as sunset,
I hold close to my heart,
like my last breath.
Photo © Joseph Hesch 2015.