The sky could bluer be, but all is clean
from rain and crisp with autumn chill. The plants
deciduous have put aside their green,
as I collect the wisdom weather grants.

I’ve grown too old to wear confusion well.
I’m too mature to know what I believe.
I’m weary of my cadence when I tell
an old opinion, but myself naive
is tiresome beyond all other traits.
Now I will let that greenness fade in me
the way it fades in autumn leaves: creates
by time’s subtraction undercolor. Free
as turning leaves am I to wear my hues,
and wisdom is the color I will choose.