It's late November, cold and gray
last warmth of autumn gone away
most of the trees are bleak and bare
their festive garb no longer there

Each step descends on festive litter
alerting squirrels, making them chitter
the crunch of dry leaves quietens all
as denizens flee from each foot fall

The wind blows in puffs like breath
unsteady and as cold as death
the chill creeps clear down to the bone
am I here in these woods alone ?

We are not the same persons this year as last; nor are those we love. It is a happy chance if we, changing, continue to love a changed person. -William Somerset Maugham, writer (1874-1965)

We're chained to the post
Prometheus at most
tedious forebears of a terrible task
trying to love those who love us best -
even though the passion has past.

Throwing stones on the pond
the ripples ever widening the effect
on the center
Continually expanding and dividing
our responses changing,
but impasse is a formidable mentor.

As finality draws near
I see the world as ecstacy
beyond transition,
each instant burgeoning delight,
unfolding outwards into endlessness
where every second's thought
becomes eternal,
each moment's choice
a new beginning
reaching to realities unknown
until the present catches up with past
and future hurries by,
time decreasing in echoed infinities
between duration's measure
and hope's treasure
of emerald lands that shout beneath
bright shores by gleaming seas