His hair is white, brittle-dry;

Cataracts, soon to claim one eye,

Facing terms he can’t deny,

As autumn faces lull.

Winds that swirl the dead leaves up,

Myriads of moons fan abrupt,

Un-parched he holds his empty cup,

Yet drinks from fountains full.

The crooked staff he holds in hand,

Will read this path of familiar land,

Traversing this he understands,

Journeys kept before.

When lungs elastic fed the pace,

Springing tendons, then he raced,

With quicker turns he left no trace,

With forest’s first explore.

He arrives then at the ancient tree,

That grew so tall in woodlands free,

Where suns would rest on canopy,

In patience, light his way.

Looks then, so high above,

Where he had carved her name in love,

Smiles when he’s reflecting of,

Him kneeling on that day.

He pauses, then returns to fend,

The voyage toward the river bend,

Where life begins and life must end

If truth remains sublime.

His pack is his, with nothing lent;

No ills or hatreds to repent;

Contented men fear discontent

As he walks, in hand, with time.