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
© Vilma Ginzberg, 11-28-2020