Poem By John F. McCullagh
The fallen leaves of red and gold await me and my rake.
As I am in a reflective mood, they’ll simply have to wait.
I am in my sixties now, my body feels the cold.
I know I am no longer young, yet I do not feel that old.
I admire nature’s bold broad strokes; these brightly colored leaves.
(I would enjoy them twice as much if I didn’t have to clean)
Soon I’ll have them raked and bagged for the garbage man to take.
We used to burn them in years gone by, but that was a mistake.
I remember, as a child, jumping in the leafy mounds.
They yelled at me, my parents, but I suspect that they had grounds.
Now in the autumn of my life, on this crisp October morn,
My life’s choices have all been made and all my children born.
Time, surely I must yet have time to sing the song of life.
It’s time now to enjoy our quiet house, just me and my wife.
A time when I’ll compose my verse, time to taste the wine.
Yet who among us can be sure they’re not on borrowed time.
Should I fall, prematurely, like these leaves of gold and red,
I hope all I have loved in life speak kindly of the dead.