I step into retreating night
as east first shows a hint of light
the birds are still, October's chill
rests lightly on the silent hill.

The stars peek through broad streaks of cloud
one cricket's dying, rasping loud
I pause to see a memory
of times when life included me.

So still, it's like an empty nave
or wilting grass upon a grave
'nother morning, day aborning
and blues that strike without a warning.

A sad old feeling comes to call
down through the woodland dark and tall
the muse is blind, though left behind
she reassures the aging mind.

Do not give up, or flee the strife
it's not mere chance you have a life
perhaps it's time to write a rhyme.
Speak up,old man, for 'tis your dime.