Turning

Green days and sunshine

turn to Indian Summer,

and the small but telling signs

that winter comes.

Nothing in a bottle will save you.

Season's turning

strips us bare,

and truth's towering form

casts its shadow.

Dust to dust.

Youth is squeezed out

of mottled hands,

flesh goes slack.

The body yearns

to plop into a wicker chair,

fuss and  fury ended.

But the mind still feels

spring's caress

and, seeing youth

pass along a city street,

recalls an earlier season.

Fires die but sparks remain,

and I will eat of the apple

all the days of my life.

This was written for The Sunday Whirl.