I have not changed in years (it seems),
     physically I am constant,
six feet and lopping sack of
     bone and skin, buck-forty
on my best, wettest day.

These months have flown as
     leaves in fall.
November is come and soon
     will escape with the wind
as well and I am solidly planted
     at a desk in an office with a
floor too hard to deepen the reach
     of my roots.

I am like to wither and rot,
     left rootless in snow and
ice; ash of autumn, flowerless.
     The trees will die—grounded,
yes, and utterly passionless.