Thin Ice

I sit by a creekside and watch autumn leaves skate away,

sliding atop a Canadian stream

barren trees

as golden and yellow ships race aside rock and fallen branches

The sun is at my back-- casts a shadow over the encroaching ice

As a writer I need my solitude, a walk in a forest tires me quickly

I am as old as a memory

Time to move along, a stop along a creekside is short, the air is cold, 

I want more time alone; but a dampness breaks through my wool clothes

When I was I young, I would not take this rest at all--nor walk along this path

Then I was not a writer, I saw no beauty in solitude 

Thick as a Brick

Skating Away

Life is not the same,

I hear the change of aging music in solo winds

A walk down the path will take me to my writer's home 

There I will set a fire in a black stove,

and burn new words--not a verse from an old song