The anticipation of winter begins
with an aching in the bones
and is followed soon after
by an aching far deeper.
In the root of me,
well below and beyond,
I have been excavated,
hollowed out —
not in preparation
for something greater
or more fulfilling,
but because my time is past.
My time has passed.
A too short spring
followed by
a too hot summer,
followed by
an all too short fall;
I can taste
the cinnamon and frost
that mark
my waning years.
What follows this
is what follows
all things that rise: descent.
