The breeze is urgent, crisp, and like a stream
of consciousness that musses thinning hair.
Autumn arrives—she settles like a dream
that brightens life before the trees go bare.

I trudge the lanes of age—the oaks get older
as I proceed along my scenic stroll
until I reach the Winter, stark and colder—
a man who’s reached the coring of his soul.

It seems there’s nothing left but memories,
a batch of craggy limbs, discarded leaves,
and skeletons of what were brilliant trees
providing atmosphere for one who grieves.

The winds are piercing—Death, I feel thy sting
a world away from love, and miles from Spring.

David Nelson Bradsher

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/bridging-seasons/