Halfway through a century
I stopped to look around
and saw my Autumn was glorious.
I am no longer in late summer
no matter how much
I want to pretend that the frost has not come.
I want so much to cling
to the high green and verdant things
but my world is turning into gold.
And I am spinning
spinning into a deeper stillness
getting closer to hearing your voice.
The tiny whisper
rustling amid the leaves
in the blaze of pumpkin and cranberry and apple.
I can almost hear it
softer than milkdown.
It is my autumn.
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