40

The leaves are falling already,

Their colors never had the chance

To change.

Like loved ones taken

Too young.

Or the last bloom of summer.

Those who say they have

No regrets haven’t lived, or are good liars.

Because no one ever got it right

Every time.

The shadows tell their story too,

Moving ever-so-slowly across the rock walls;

Cold, giant, and underwhelmingly welcoming.

They’re sneaky – those shadows.

We want to climb & capture them,

But they are only ghosts.

And ghosts never change either.

Nor do they have regrets.

At the middle of life,

And I have my color,

And time – 

For now.

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