The face of the sun is hidden,
Its antagonist a tawny edged cloud.
If Sol will take revenge on a desert,
It does not suffer an idiot cloud,
Wind is joyously dancing with the trees,
To a musical rustling of falling leaves,
They drift as years of life descend,
A cascading irreverence for the past,
Molting the pathway toward tomorrow,
Nature sighs as it has for eons,
There is no regret, no reflection,
Only the eclipse of time.
2022, Donald C. Harbour
Thought provoking. The waning years are not easy.
Very effective poem Donald. And good to see you here again. Hope you are keeping well.