Like Autumn leaves, we live on borrowed time
before the parched and brownly breeze-dried branch
becomes a lifeless dusty paradigm,
when our molecules dissolve [avalanche].
Four times a taste of death has struck with force;
yet every watershed in which I swam —
despite the piercing nature of the course —
has shaped my world and made me who I am.
But whether this has been for good or ill
can only be determined by the wise.
Of clouds’ mendacity I’ve had my fill;
I long to leave this world with fond goodbyes.
One thing I know: Our lives hang by a strand,
and soon we’ll taste what lies beyond, first-hand.
© Alan Morrison, 2019