The degradation of the autumn leaves—
This carpet of fallen soldiers,
The blood-brown quilt that stains like
A haberdashery of abstracted colors.
The annual symbol of passing time
Reminds me of my father’s features,
When I look into the mirror of late,
The elongation of generations that stares back at me,
Come to roost? In search of a contemplative pause?
Life seems to be saying more this year.
More loss. More change. Where rhapsody once was,
Now lies the calibrated soul on the mend.
bymax7 