This year I decided to follow my heart,
On ward south down the Oregon Coast.
Reflecting as I traversed the road,
On my losses and those I loved most.
Nothing appeared in an order,
Different sights, new memories came to mind,
A lifetime filled with tragedies,
And yet the world’s been kind.
The leaves falling golden from the trees,
Float like boats in the street gutter’s flood,
The first leaf turns gold as the air cools,
The rest turning red, spill time’s blood.
One by one they fall to the ground,
Different species, in various stages;
Falling like sands in an hour glass,
Tossed like ripped, torn calendar pages.
The last two stanzas have really good images: leaves turning red, like time's spilled blood; leaves falling like ripped, torn calendar pages. I'm beginning to see how you are obsessed by time. But I have yet to sense why you are frustrated by change.
ReplyDeleteAA