Autumn and old age both teach of letting go.
Glowing Indian summers
and rich harvests usher in closure as nature wanes.
Grandchildren no longer whisper in my ears,
and my aging body yearns in vain for praise.
But there is a melancholy pleasure
as leaves burst with color
and flashbacks rich in recollection flit by.
Lullabies and bedtime stories
echo through my dreams
and I quaver with joy
recalling bygone evenings
when snuggling was a childhood ritual.
My deep wrinkles tell many happy tales,
and my carved walking stick
lets me wander once more into a meadow
where I behold springs eternal recurrence.

The spidery rope of memory, long and durable,
connects the accumulated affections of a lifetime
from generation to generation.