Circle of Dust
The Indian Summer in my years
even now gives uncertain reprieve
from this red and brown decline
and its brittle, broken stems.
Branches all about grow thinner
with the fall of each spent leaf.
I couldn't say which will drop next
nor what wind will stir to blow them
but winds blow and leaves drop
whispering their fearful epitaphs.
Carried faintly in October echoes,
each gasped noise returns to me
trying to rise above the valley
but falling rather short of their mark.
Every seeker poised on this ledge
for the hearing of someone else's tongue
learns the deafness of this still air.
Echoes along linger amid these soft winds
like riders on an endless circle of dust.
About the Poem
This poem considers the point of view of a life that has come to see fewer days ahead than there are behind.
This poem is previously unpublished in print.