Another summer has past,
evaporated like warm breath
on cold glass
And I ask myself:
How many more summers await me?
Because the painful truth
is that I am drawing down
to that final one
We are finite players
in an infinite universe
For children,
there is no end.
Just a series of beginnings
finality merely an obscure blemish
in the distance, insignificant
to youthful eyes
But to those of us
who are labelled “seniors,”
the supply of tomorrows
is rapidly dwindling, like
the daylight in early autumn
So you take them one at a time,
reveling in each sun-splashed day,
hoping another summer looms ahead,
and maybe,
just maybe
you can find away
to keep that dwindling light
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