this is a season of tired and broken things
mushrooms emerge from the dark earth
jaundiced leaves refusing release
blackened leaf pumpkin vines
scattered families of geese
honk lost gosling names
morning mist runs the river
it is a season of cold and swirling winds
eroding sandstone’s epoch hourglass
sand shifts into the sagebrush steppe
a lone thunderstorm wanders
as the last wildflower fades
as a golden sunset into twilight
i will be here until i’m not
it is enough to watch the light change
horizons rimmed with golden blue
and to feel the weight of years
like blowing sand upon my cheeks
as stone yields to wind
beginning life as soil
the sun leaves and returns again