Age keeps its withered fingers <br />Hovering over the crown of your head, <br />While October runs away like <br />Retrievers scenting a fox, somewhere <br />Far ahead, where the woods turn golden, <br />The clouds farther off, like hazy memories. <br /> <br />In Autumn, youth seems too irrevocable <br />To remember its moist fingers <br />And wide open eyes; better not to try <br /> <br />But live on breaths of cool, winding hope <br />That the eyes around still love us <br />Though they are not those eyes, <br /> <br />The ones in dreams, the ones that seemed to follow us <br />Wherever we roamed, through verdant fields <br />Or barren ones. Somewhere above the stars <br />The eye of the beholder is never clear.<br /><br />Patti Masterman<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-eye-of-the-beholder-4/
