Brittle leaves
	Fall like yellow snow.
	Hot August—
	No rain, no clouds,
	Life suspended,
	The ghosts of summer
	Autumn's scholars
	Wait future-hidden
	For their cue
	To troop on stage
	For parts and scenes
	Still unimagined,
	Still unknown.
	What will be
	My role
	In this Life-story?
	I know
	No more than they.
	But nigh 50 summers gone
	Tell me
	Neither they nor I
	Will find,
	Come spring's gentle song,
	We spoke
	The words
	Or walked
	The paths
	We dreamed we would.
	So Life
	Bends and shapes
	Us all.


© Fred O'Bryant. All rights reserved.

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