Reflections at the end of life.
If I were to gather the years
into a pile, like a windfall
of autumn leaves swept together
for disposal in the fire,
then look up to count those still clinging
to the branch, not even worth raking
when finally they fall,
releasing at last their grip
in the cold winter wind of life,
I’d know then the number remaining,
be granted a deadline
(in more ways than one)
to get this down and be done.
But time’s not like that,
it has its reasons and seasons,
once verdant in the bold days of summer,
green with new growth and promise
of harvests yet to be,
now dry and grey in the bitter days
uncounted, no limit set
on this waiting for the year’s end.
In truth, I’d have it no other way,
am glad of this indefinite extension
to behave as if this is forever,
waking each day unmindful of limits
and savouring the taste of the years
as never before. Just one thing I ask -
let me be still working
when that final call comes;
let me say in haste, “A moment,
I’ll be with you in a moment,
three more words and it’s done.”
Line Count: 32
Free Verse (now there’s a surprise)
For The Daily Poem, July 28 2020, Winner.
Prompt: On the subject of time - write about something with a deadline.