I have to stop dreaming
Pretending that what might be is
Following ethereal paths that lead
To other ethereal paths.
The leaves are changing
Stark purple and orange against a blue sky
The water, though clear, is cold
From the depths to the surface
The grey sky is barely pierced
By the occluded wreath of the sun
Ideas as great and grand as a granite face
Are withered and blown away with a breath
In all the space of infinity
The simple horizon of the wind-hewn veterans
There is not room for the ruminations of youth
I have to stop dreaming
Understanding that the day is thick but short
Dense in its resonance
And final in its word.