A Reflection on our Own Mortality, Engendered by the Onset of the Autumnal Season

Your dreams are dark, your dormant mind submerged
In oceans black and far from earthly shores.

Wake up, and shower, dress yourself and go.
Step out into the world.  The leaves are falling.
The west wind drives a motley bunch, of red
and yellow, faded from their springtime green.
And time is short before the winter chill
will grind them, brown and soft, into the earth.

The sky is blue, and blank; the air is cold;
you dress yourself against the chill.  The sun
is pale, and yellow, distant, here and gone
again.
             And so this day, empty, shall form,
with many other solemn winter hours
(frosty starlight, by the smoldering fire),
a crumbling bulwark, fencing out the thought:

that thus has stalked you in your bed asleep.
And with each passing breath, you know your head
will shrink, and wrinkle, waxing grey, and then

Copyright 2005 by Ike Wassom.  All rights reserved.