Though the days remain warm, the nights grow longer every day. That's a fact, Time Change or not. This poem is one result:
Dream Sought
I could not find the trail,
it being so concealed
by shadows of black and gray trees
and the whitest shadow of snow.
Yet I know the path is there
for it was well-trodden in
better days. Still I am troubled
and doubtful, like entering a
darkened room and feeling for
a moved chair.
“No road has an end,”a hobo said,
“as long as the numbers change
or the tracks lead the other way.”
But this is a path in the forest,
the one that looks familiar, and I
hope leads to a silent meadow,
soft-shaded, where I lay down to
die.