Time keeps fleeting, with age following closely. The old man looks at the fallen leaves, then stops and admires the wild flowers, pausing awhile, as he sees the roses wilting. It is autumn. Spring had come and gone. He likened the inevitable passing of the seasons to his advancing age, hoping the winter would be kind and the snows tolerable.
He passed that age when carefree was his heart,
for then it seemed spring remained assured –
spring of his youth, seemingly eternal, unthreatening,
when he would set no value on its glorious worth,
except imbibe its refreshments, lifting his spirit,
raising his hopes, as he thought not of the seasons
that must follow, when he felt not the rush of time;
when he counted not on uncertainties.
Now he sees the falling leaves, roses wilting,
birds subdued; stalwart trees denuded bare,
like the blossoms of his being, withered by time.
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