There's a certain edge of chill in the mornings
And the angle of the sunlight betrays the passing of the year.
A few pioneer leaves have changed already,
Harbingers of an encroaching winter.
And in some odd way I am weary of wariness –
Alert to signs and possibilities,
A prompting to keen diagnosis
And then fulsome plans
Based upon some futile prognosis
Of what to do
And needs be done.
I think this time around I'm not going to try so hard
And just let time and things unfold as they will,
And just simply be.
I don't have anything to prove anymore,
The score of battles lost and won,
Struggle endured and mistakes made
Have been tallied enough.
After a while it all seems to be keeping score
Because that's what we've always done
And how we do things.
It is Autumn,
The time of fall. So one last look back,
Brace ourselves for winter
And carry on.