A fog rolled into the leafless hollow
Fallen and faded of glorious color
A withering rug of molding mass
Growing dark is dank November
In the midst of a life in crises
So lies swollen shut
My eyes are cried with cold
Blurry is first glimpse of snow

Now water running clean and sober
Down streambed past a boulder
Scored with ancient glacial scars
Across its smooth face bored
As stories born shiny and wet
So waits freezing still
My breath clouds into my face
Mixing with the fog that brews

And now, across a squeaking bridge
Floor of sagging wood grows moss
Hiding rot from within its mass
Cracked and rusted its paint peels
And loosens old skinny nails
So goes aging time
My heart grows weaker while
I pass the old millstone by