August becomes goldenrod’s yellow—infinite
diluted suns—somnolent after summer’s race,
ferns browning toward dust, jewelweed’s orange-
red slippers, haven for humming-birds.
Autumn becomes asters bloomed a muted purple,
an explosions of milkweed, white pappus
to airy flight. A dream toward dying,
hillsides faded toward their fate.
Winter becomes white and gray and stratocumulus
clouds with sunrays leaking weak light
upon the bones of these hills, the frozen
bone of ice on Solstice Lake.
Spring becomes fiddlehead’s question-mark,
the empty yellow chime of trout
lily bells, and the virginal white of bloodroot,
trees now heavy with rain and song.
These wild hues a rotation, a revolution upon
Solstice Mountain. There is nothing for
each season to mourn about this cycle
But I am tinted by forty-four years of forever
becoming beyond spring, beyond summer.
Hair-leaves becoming brittled toward
autumn. Beard becoming thin snowfall.
This human life becomes one straight line toward oblivion.