Where whispering leaves waver in winter air,
I return along the old dirt road that was my home.
The air is cold, the branches bare where I used
To play, when I was young and autumn fair.

In the shade of wind shimmered trees now bare,
I once reclined to drink in the soft swaying seas
That flowed from the fields to an imagined shore
I’d adore, when I was young and autumn fair.

The porch creaks the hearth to which I am heir
And haunts all my footsteps through the now dust-
Filled rooms that had once been my escape from
The world, when I was young and autumn fair.

All the books I scorned are torn beyond repair,
But still sit in their places as though waiting for use
Although the house is barren and the walls bare where
I hid, when I was young and autumn fair.

Photo by Jr Korpa on Unsplash