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
             of succession.
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.