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.

G.F. Cantrell