At 63

The sunflowers are spent,

and the milkweed pods have burst.

There is a leeching and loosening

where all that held its hue and form

is settling into the twilight of autumn.

And I, too, fold my wings

into the hollows of this season.

My marrow slows.

My bones, now barren branches, cry

If I had but one green leaf,

one verdant banner to fly,

I might weather this undoing.

But we are slackening to brown,

these trees and I.

An inevitable sepia washes across our pages.

This is the way of it,

the browning of our lives.

We submit to it as we must,

and its reflective richness wraps itself

around our scarcity in surprising ways.

So we stand erect, leafless,

but warm in the assurance

of sable and umber and walnut.