With age I fade into irrelevance
far from home, whatever benevolence
or detriment, the agent Iíve been
the care that I have given, merge
shade under a tree, my shadow
blends into dark green, hollow
of the wood, then not seen.
The date, could it really matter?
Only eulogies of fluttering leaves
as poems, their letters, tears
dampening the page, folding day
smear, whisking the years away.
Jan G. Otterstrom F. 1/1/2012