The Eye Of The Beholder

Age keeps its withered fingers Hovering over the crown of your head, While October runs away like Retrievers scenting a fox, somewhere Far ahead, where the woods turn golden, The clouds farther off, like hazy memories. In Autumn, youth seems too irrevocable To remember its moist fingers And wide open eyes; better not to try But live on breaths of cool, winding hope That the eyes around still love us Though they are not those eyes, The ones in dreams, the ones that seemed to follow us Wherever we roamed, through verdant fields Or barren ones. Somewhere above the stars The eye of the beholder is never clear.