I still dream of long, beaten pathways

With orange leaves on sand and stone;

The smell of the rain, and its soft kiss upon me;

The chill of winter creeping into my bones.

And there's still time for long, quiet wanderings,

And hopes climbing high, like the clouds from my cup.

The withered, white light of these soft, dewy mornings--

The fog closing in, that opens me up.

I still dream of long, beaten pathways

With orange leaves on sand and stone;

The smell of the rain, and its soft kiss upon me;

The chill of winter creeping into my bones.

You are the leaves, spilled paint on concrete.

I am my bones; I cannot escape.

I travel this path in continuous autumn,

But winter is here now and taking its shape.