First frost of autumn on petals and leaves.
Summer is already a memory
lost in the cold fog of cloudy morning.
Time to pick apples, quince, say fond farewell
to desperate insects flitting about.
The sky will soon be a river of snow
And my mind will be as frozen as ice.
Boiling kettle will now be my best friend.
My grandson is more accepting of change,
which may say something about my own age.
It’s time once more to become a bookworm,
find warmth in the wisdom of other men.
Did I say wisdom? Does wisdom still play
a role in life on a cold winter’s day?