I turned twenty-four a week ago,
And here I will remain until the day I earn
My twenty-fifth birthday
At the end of summer next year.
Leaves change, as do people, though
More clearly after long absence.
I feel the weather’s mood,
Perhaps I feel theirs’ too?
Do I grow? No. Can I grow
Between now and half of fifty?
To blink now is to miss what lies before me
And the end of summer next year.
The restless leaves will rustle under foot
At the end of summer, and
Still I wrestle with how I will walk among them:
I think I’ll quit my job now.