The golden hue of age.
The arboreal tapestry of life
shimmers, playing with the light,
cascaded rays on the floor of time.
All the souls nestled as leaves
on the branches of creation wait
for autumn to be collected
in a great cosmic basket.
We choose to be so different but,
we are all one in the same, each
grasping our place on a twig.
When the breath of end time
sweeps across the stars we will
shudder together falling in layers.
This beauty is not in the green bud,
it is the luster of the golden hue of age,
a gentle fluttering to join the pattern,
woven into the fabric of Nature’s cloth
where the hands of Gaia tend the loom.
Copyright: 2010, Donald Harbour
Donald Harbour Poetry 