Eternally Green

It is late in the season and the leaves are changing,
signaling winter’s call.
Early in the morning, as you lay in your bed
you hear the geese cry, gathering
for the long journey south.

Cool air wafts through the window,
so cold you lay under your quilt, still and warm,
aware of your age, of the passing of seasons,
so many seasons that they have become a blur,
a cycle with out meaning, save as a reminder

of your survival.
but inside your heart, it is summer, perpetual, rich
and wild with life. Eternally green
even
as the winter approaches.

About this poem

I can look in mirrors. I see what other see. Grey hair. Aged skin. All of it. I feel it some days too. But just as often, my heart beats wild and my hopes run like a child, and somewhere, I am still young.

Tom