I could walk this road
through a thousand autumns
and see it differently every time,
under a different sky,
a changing wind,
yellow leaves rustling
like discarded newspapers
across the ground;
sometimes wet,
clinging to my boots,
not wanting to let go.

Year after year
I shuffled through the seasons,
one year remembered,
another forgotten
and now,
in the autumn of my years,
wondering how the story
of my life might end
and whether this road
will somehow remember me.

Frank Baker
Revised September 2018