The sense of proportion is gray,
a faded brown from the youthful green.
Spring was decades ago
when lustrous flowers strove to lazuli destinies
on sunwings measuring starspans across;
hale years marked by perfect expectations
when my eyes were bigger than my heart.
It's the end of summer and there is dryness
crisply knocking on the pine bark door:
I leave will not be part of this fall.
My pupils are no longer dilated
by ideas and fathoms and flight
winter may unfold as it pleases
to a sight line as long as it's bright.
Roman Ryan 