Time marches in, right on cue,
asks for his just due
holds the weapon of every choice
in the cloak that bares concealment.

Hey, but that's just for starters, we don't get the menu
until much, much later. There's nothing to eat but what wastes
away,
hunger manifests in each and every statue,
deep-veined in human blood
willing to come to life,
to be alive in dreamscapes, near and far;

motes of dust we travel well,
never break the silence of wild geese
with impossible intervention

I'm proud to know someone, such as yourself.
True enough, life has generously burdened you,

and serendipity, and fortune have more of a tendency to hide
rather than attempt to seek you out.

Plus, the darker your misfortunate episode is,
the more apt you are to cultivate a proclivity

to coerce yourself into enduring a sort of, "trend";
otherwise known as a bad, "run of luck", as it were.

So, consider this thought concerning your range of circumstances.
Everyone of your private joys, and secret sorrows

Goldenrod explode on the road sides
on a cool day 'neath the leaden sky
with black eyed Susans close as brides,
yellows exhaled by fall's first sigh.

Among the forests poplars turn,
gold sprinkled among somber green
like specks of butter in a churn
foretelling colors yet unseen.

Not yet time for the orange blaze
of hickory or maple trees
glowing through calm morning haze
or flickering in a gentle breeze.

When your boobs begin descending
When your bottoms getting bigger
When you put on extra weight
And you’ve lost your girlish figure
When you find a friend in chocolate
When you’d rather read a book
When you take off all your clothes
And nobody wants to look
When you get a water bottle
When your feet are always cold
When the night sweats come to haunt you
It’s a sign you’re getting old