the trees and the grass are aging.
even the mist looks wrinkled
and old
clouds are going gray
the sun is tired
of rising,
can't get up until late afternoon

birds quaver their songs off-key
and elderly insects
complain with raspy voices
as they surrender to relentless time

only the rolling water of the river flows on
day after day, and even that
is by no means guaranteed

among the dying grasses,
broken branches
where the wind hides, sighing and weeping

i, too, feel as melancholy
as a falling leaf