Park bench

This is a nice spot, this here bench,
a nice spot to look at the world go by.
That is, partly, why I am here.

First listen, listen to the leaves:
they crackle like fire, exploding into
yellow-red-gold flames! They go forth,
licking the pure air, riding it
violently, vivid, vibrant
sparks, before they
kiss the sweet earth.
They die in beauty.

Then contrast that with this image. These
brown figures, clutching their
brown hats, hugging their
brown cloaks around them.
Browner than this earth, they go forth,
hurrying and scurrying, to their
deaths.
I wonder if they know
where they are going?

They sure look like it.
Look at their purposeful grimaces,
frowning at the brownness about and
in them. They must rush!
Somewhere on the circumference of this circle they trace
an appointment awaits!

And so they go,
step after step after step after
step, until finally, they have
ground themselves to the ground,
leaving nothing but wrinkles where once were
feet. These are the old
circles of life.

They are a blur to me, as I am sure
they are to themselves.
I forget, they do not have the time
to count how many bits of golden magic
have fallen about their heels. They count
another sort of gold, as cold and as hard
as their hearts.

Now listen again, listen to the trees:
they cry at the wind, the wind which wipes away their
yellow-red-gold tears! They weep,
they weep magic to the skies and to
the earth. They weep in fading beauty,
for us.

Then compare them with this picture. This
old lady, who sits, with a silent shudder, on
this here bench. Peer through her paper-thin
skin, dappled with age, and remember that
it was on this bench her crinkled lips
parted, that she then murmured this:

“I waited all my life to die, to die
because I lived. I lived to die.”

There were no tears.
I turned, before she went forth
forever, and smiled,
“Don’t we all?”