On the edge of autumn,
I see the sky and trees ablaze with color.
I can still smell
the smoldering fires of fierce youth,
when the landscape of my heart was wild,
a wilderness that wouldn’t be tamed.
But I’m afraid
old age has quenched my thirst for adventure.
Even my poems have lost their teeth.
Gone are my scabbed-up knees
and swords made of sticks.
No beautiful maidens to rescue;
just constipation to overcome
as I listen to the ticking
of the clock,
beating louder as evening draws near.
