September
when the summer crumbles
finally burned out
leaving more ashes
gray like my hair
for another autumn
at least one
across forested mountains
while the vultures
migrate through
once again
remembering their
centuries
and the phantoms
of wanderers coming home
preparing themselves
for a spring
that whispers secrets
in the dreams of bears
waiting for the coming rain
to run down rocky slopes
washing away
all the accumulated
moments
of another year
passing around the sun
with all the fanfare
forgotten
and I become
older
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