The change that’s coming has flecks of grey in dark black hair
blue veins, which have always been there, rising to the surface
red needles in green leaves and browning edges. Its the long
decline into coming winter, the dignity of an old tree, who lives
beyond those chopped for wood, those struck down by lightning,
those who survive the fires, the knives, the back scratch of bears.
The change that’s coming has flecks of maroon in taut cheeks
lines from laughter and sudden movement, where once we cared
bout the admiration of strangers, our blue eyes turned to the sky
to the long view of calendars measured in years, to music libraries
measured in decades and our love, that lone survivor built now
for the environment, to last forever, bent just right to the sun.