My Eyes Were Bigger Than My Heart

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.

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