Under the Canopy

The sky silvers
Into an autumn blanket
Frigid at altitude
But tolerable under the canopy
Of oak and maple.

I sit on the page
Of an aging day
On a tick of the clock.

The insistent chill
In the afternoon breeze
Scatters brittle brown leaves
Lying like fallen warriors
Of a warmer clime
Now living but in memory.

Soon, this year
Will be catalogued
With a four digit number
Shoved onto a dusty shelf
Unspectacular
Forgotten
Chiseled onto memory marble
In gardens of stone.

But there is time
To ponder what is
What was
And what will never be.

I quiet my spirit
Letting the waning sun
Gentle me
In October arms.