In the autumn of my fiftieth year
I walked to the dam. When I made it there
I wished I’d arrived there earlier,
because the yellow leaves were everywhere.

The dam gates were open. In the misty spray
of the intemperate river, as it roiled away,
I repented my powerlessness and delay,
and every missed moment that would not stay.

Your time’s an epiphenomenon,
like the yellow leaves you’ve walked upon.
When the harder winds of fall come on,
the yellow leaves are blown and gone.

The mist on the river will disappear
into the colding of the year;
and maybe, too, remorse and fear
in the intemperate truth of winter.