by W. Burns Taylor
Autumn evenings,
when the clack of leather heels on a hollow sidewalk
echoes down an empty street.
There's a chill in the air.
Somewhere, across a darkening park,
beyond me, beyond time,
a mother cries, "Johnny! Oh, Johnny!"
And the air is strangely tinted
with the thrill of fresh beginnings,
though my blood thickens for winter.
Autumn evenings,
When friends draw close
in the lee of a canvas awning
near the Upstairs Theater Downtown.
Inside, we sip hot apple cider
from tall, glazed glasses
while the stage is set for the third act.
Autumn evenings
that can murder the heart with silence,
coming home alone
after the losses.
You make up your mind to try something new,
to take a chance,
to pursue the road not taken.
But it's the fifth game of the World Series;
your money's on the underdog
and the leaves are dying.
Autumn evenings,
there's all that bother of Christmas coming.
The season's almost half over now
and the odds are lengthening.
It's the fourth quarter;
your team is six points down
to the odds-on favorite
and the clock is running.
But there's the scent of roses riding on the wind,
and there still is time.
Autumn again,
the days are shrinking.
The air is thick with the smoke of bonfires
and there's a presidential campaign under way.
Autumn,
and I carry the memories
of what I used to get for Christmas
home with me in a small, brown paper bag.
But though the leaves have fallen and the fans are home now,
tending their fires,
there still is time.
Time there is for long shots and last chances;
Time to kick 5 billion footballs across 5 billion parks;
Time to ready the heart for one more run for the roses.
But though the sun languishes
and the stars are dying,
as we glide into the shadows of Entropy
on the back of this vagabond Earth,
there is time
There is time still.