He was so very tired,
a fatigue that went on and on
not helped by a gloomy November day
that seemed to have no end;
with nothing more to look forward to
in his plain walled room
than the dinner bell and bed.
Outside, beyond the rain spattered window
dry brittle leaves eddied on the sidewalks
with more energy in death than ever shown in life,
collecting in golden drifts
to be strewn about once more in their race with the wind.
Through old weary eyes he watched them as they jostled along
and thought back to a time, so many years ago
when he was just a lad
helping his father rake leaves from the yard;
how he loved to gather up the golden mass
throw them high above his head,
dance as they showered down over him.
What happened to that jubilant boy
so vital and full of life?
When did the vibrant child
transform into the old tired man he had become?
In the way of the very old
he had no recollection of the middle years -
his thoughts a mosaic of youth and old age,
a jigsaw of abandoned memories.