In My Middle Years

In my middle years,
on the air of the fading summer,
I can still smell the immortality
of my shallow adolescence.

In my middle years,
on the air of the fading summer,
I can still hear the whispers
of heroic deeds never performed.

In my middle years,
on the air of the fading summer,
I can still taste honeysuckle leaves,
sweet with raw delusion.

In my middle years,
on the air of the fading summer,
I seek melancholy comfort
in wild blackberries and dusty grapes.

In my middle years,
on the air of the fading summer,
I vainly grope for tomorrow's dewdrops
because I cannot touch yesterday's river.

-Just a peasant

Painting: Wheatstacks (End of Summer) by Claude Monet