Seasons Out Of Time
The dirty cold, it came and played
the marrow of my bones today. The fall
of October begins the wintering, the
unseasoning, when the long days turn
to longer nights. If daylight comes
it barely shines, like a weakening
of the eyes
that sees cataracts
and not the skies.
These seasons are all out of time,
heated winters and freezing summers,
too wet or too dry,
too dark or too light,
say the people who see numbers
The numbers that count for me
these days are the years
piling their weight up on my shoulders.
It is difficult to stand up to them,
though I will not wilt,
I will not give in or go gentle
into anywhere without a good fight.
But I feel them now, alright,
these later seasons,
more than the early ones,
I feel them in my bones
though I am far from done.
Perhaps the seasons
of this man’s life
are out of time, too.