THE LEAVES TURN BROWN
I’m not ready for the leaves to turn
The annuals to wither, the night to encroach on too soon twilight
The dimming of summer’s bright intensity
I’m not ready for the armchair
The table lamp, the book off the shelf, candles
The quiet confinement after summer running around in sunny outside intensity
For only a couple months when it wasn’t raining
I don’t know if I can leap and kick anymore
That Hung Gar Kung Fu move I used to do so effortlessly,
And still might need in a situation, but . . .
Don’t want to try or I might pay for weeks
The same if I sit too long, even type
Paid in shoulder pain, stiff joints, a strained, numbing thumb nerve
I used to find a fond summation of it all in autumn
In the high, long lingering August sun’s long shadows
Adumbrating on the cold, hard ground
The dead leaves my slowed steps will kick through
Walking the weary earth in wan light
And now I see only summer dimming
Flowers withering, green leaves turning brown
And there’s nothing I can do about it
Snow will preclude the patio
Whose withering flowers say that won’t be long away
Maybe cool fall will linger through months in the café’s patio
Before the short daylight and the long, dim indoor lamp light
However it plays, there’s nothing I can do about it coming
Though I know it doesn’t all end in such a long winter
David Fekete 