I may believe that
the sky has always been
painted in orange-pink
strokes,
melting into lavender as the day goes

But that the leaves
have always mellowed
into a warming gold?

And that the sun
has always burned behind
them as it grows old?

The truth is a parcel hidden
at my door: The dying year
always gifted such sights.

To gaze breathlessly,
at views heavenly, was always
in my rights.

Did I search with eyes too tired and sore?
No, it is simpler:

I never looked before