November

I walk this path of crinkled golden leaves

which, like my days, have drifted down

landing under my feet

in indistinguishable clumps

there behind me

the pile of my twenties

still a bit crisp-looking

and the fat wet mound of my prime

still exuding some heat

and here underfoot

the last grey years

ready for compost now

and though the path ahead

is wrapped in fog

as I reach for the fading slant of sun

the chill in my bones

portends and promises

the long sleep ahead

after I get home

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