We are getting older.
Leaves are still falling.
Oaks with their thousand years cut short lie in pieces in the field, replacing gold and green with grey.
The roses curl their leaves in on themselves, and their hips are the only green things left in the yard.

In the distance, the evergreens are somber in the mauve desert of sunset.
Take my cold fingers and stay with me while the stars come out.

by Pól Stafford