The autumn whirlwind of warmth and cold,
A man should understand that we all get old;
The interest of color on the trees,
A detachment of true needs.
Realigning, a radar on spec,
A brain trying to detect;
See again! The summer grace!
But the fog lifted to rapid distaste.
A mirror look, it's a soul-attack,
The man that was a mountain is now snow-capped;
Trembling legs, a cedar he can not bestow,
Acceptance. It's time to go, Through the Snow.
