Giving Up The Ghost

The seasons and all their changes are in me. - Thoreau

downward

downward in death's decay

a blink of an eye, a spent rustle of time

autumnal winds howl of disequilibrium

ripping weary, faded, undeserving leaves from their tethers

not of their own accord

echoing what the good book doth say

on this changing of the guard, dying day

reaping what was sewn in due season

no room for excuses

no time for reason

littered ground of spent foliage

yesterday emblazoned

today mourned

granting tomorrow an assimilation of the most

ground donning a rich sweater of cashmere

no regrets

no fear

seasons come and go

kneeling and praying

to a merciful, loving, caring host

ever hopeful and faithful

willingly,

giving up the ghost

Author's Note

"Every blade in the field - Every leaf in the forest - lays down its life in its season as beautifully as it was taken up." - Thoreau