Remnants of a Kite (Reflections on Midlife)

No longer soaring Summer's reached her zenith, Plummeted, And now is caught In the immortal wane Which casts over these woods It's veil of fermentation And farewell. Weary greenery Bored now of encroachment Dons flavescent mien, Less fervid the cicada song And shadows crouch cooler— Subtle portents I see with sadness Yet know I must accept. At forest's edge I note a gnarled, old pine Tall against gilded sky Embraced atop A tattered kite Lofty now in spirit only Beckons in the breeze.

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