And so it was, but tomorrow ...
Perhaps … perhaps … to drift
as I catch sail upon the last autumn leaf.
To waver above the earth, flitter and fly
in uncharted locomotion,
upward and round the bend of time
until the snap
until the crush, resounding step
digging deep into the dust
and I, to mingle with the sands,
to catch in the eyes of new lovers
on an uproarious wind.
Perhaps I waft … I wind down
breathless and often wayward
never quite understanding by which road I travel,
but humbled that I traveled well at all.
can I captain one final turn
with no intent or direction,
but only a moment to linger above saffron fields
and twist aside the whirlwinds,
or pass through the echoes of my children?
Can I ride this autumn orange
with brilliance on a slow leisurely wobble?
May I just drift?