Age

Now I have come
to the autumn of my life,
and I do not turn away.

I walk into it,
through leaves gone copper and gold,
through the scent of woodsmoke,
through the long gray afternoons
when the light begins
to loosen its hold.

Yet what is autumn

but the harvest

of seeds sown
in the spring?

The field gives back
only what was planted.

The wheat is gathered.
The chaff goes to the wind.
The barns fill.
The table is laid.

Winter will come.

It always does,

with its frost,
its hard wind,
its long silence.

But not today.

Today
I lift a cup
with those
who have lived long enough
to know the taste of autumn.