So often, not always, but mostly elated,
Not often, and sometimes, but rarely deflated.
All I can do is the best I can do,
And hope that's enough to see me through.
The leaves are turning, soon to be still,
The skies look dark above the window-sill.
The transition to winter, foreboding with chill,
The trees soon silent after migration cools the trill.
Pensively I stare, ahead into the looking glass.
I cannot help but wonder what lies beyond the last.
Alas, not blessed, with a crystal ball,
But lately, at least, a life of sweet enthrall.
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