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