I fear it sometimes,

the very thought of it,

a dank odor in my flat,

a sign of skin shedding,

enveloping the room

with the reality of my time.

I fear it when my joints hurt,

walking up the steps a knee

shouts at me in pain,

I can’t pull up

and have to continue on.

I fear it,

the very nature of aging,

the seasons come and go

each with their own beauty,

recompense, tradition.

I fear my own,

though I wonder, autumn.