Old Timer’s

The old ones are talking
Expectations like a whirlwind 
Swells up into the air
Fiercely pounding
Leaves upon the ground

Leaves now gold, yellow, red--
Bright, bold in appearance 
Against the backdrop
Of a darkened, slated sky
Fused into a web of pending danger 
Yet, yielding a time free of tension 
As it begins to pour forth its power 
Like a spell, it hardens cement

I see the birds, caught up in flight
In a hurry to clear this geographic sector
The mad exodus to a new zone
The wind chimes vibrate constantly 
Sounding the warning,
It’s coming—

The first frost of the season
Frozen crystals, roughly hewn in place
Pumpkins in fields 
Reveal the once bright orange 
Sunsets, while rotten tomatoes 
Fall to the ground signaling 
The end of a season
When certain things lie dormant
Like dreams buried deep 
Within one’s consciousness 
Not knowing when to jump 
Up and bear its fruit. 

The old ones now sit 
In front of the TV
Resting, watching, breathing 
As vivid Images on the screen
Shelter their inner voice
Silent for the moment
Yet, waiting to be heard
Waiting to be transported 
Once again, come springtime.

Written by Inge Schultz