Seasons Out Of Time

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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

in everything.

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.