In a week, I'll begin another year, my 70th year. Who would have thought such a thing? Shocking. But I had best get used to it, because if I am lucky, there will be more, and with them more losses. September always sets me off; my birthdate has managed to collide with many tragic losses. Oh, I won't make the list, but I am feeling a bit like this leaf, found this morning, walking with Abbie -- tear stained and getting crispy around the edges, but still green, mostly.
The mind is so odd and incomplete -- we know we are mortal, but can't understand it. We know about age, passing time and its encroachments, but we can never truly accept them.
La-de-da, de-la-de-dum 'tis autumn. Bob Dorough with the lyrics here.
Call the north wind to come on out . . . to shout, la-da-de-la-de-dum, 'tis autumn.
The falling leaves drift by my window. Those autumn leaves of red and gold.