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