I've seen the dying, amber, autumn leaves;
they fell into the orchard full of trees
where grass lay fully bent to sway no
more
no warmth to make it limber, fully spent.
Across the fence, an old man in a chair
sits dying in the shade which darkness
feigns,
his heart so dull and numb it cannot feel
the winter that will freeze what will
not move.
The snow will cover everything that's dead.
The stars and moon still rise and wonder
why
the graying will not listen to the sky,
preferring death whose season draws so
near.
Yet as the autumn comes, and we say "come",
I pray that more shall turn than just
the leaves,
for love will not lose hope for anything:
this is the promise of that golden ring.
Anne Bryant-Hamon
Sept. 6, 1998
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