The breeze is urgent, crisp, and like a stream <br />of consciousness that musses thinning hair. <br />Autumn arrives—she settles like a dream <br />that brightens life before the trees go bare. <br /> <br />I trudge the lanes of age—the oaks get older <br />as I proceed along my scenic stroll <br />until I reach the Winter, stark and colder— <br />a man who’s reached the coring of his soul. <br /> <br />It seems there’s nothing left but memories, <br />a batch of craggy limbs, discarded leaves, <br />and skeletons of what were brilliant trees <br />providing atmosphere for one who grieves. <br /> <br />The winds are piercing—Death, I feel thy sting <br />a world away from love, and miles from Spring.<br /><br />David Nelson Bradsher<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/bridging-seasons/
