When the wind whistles mid-October’s cadence

With solemn decadence,
Autumn begins its brisk and windy backbite,

And Day shrinks back from all-encroaching Night.

Shadows at five o’clock on weathered headstones
Cringe beneath the sun’s scowl of an eye,
Blight on the sky.

Don’t number me among those shadows. I’m
Alive and hale, fighting the wrack of time.
I breathe and beat despite
The weakening light.