the writer

The Writer.

I was writing a novel, it took long, when
looking up, a window shutter slammed,
as the breaths of fall frostily entered.

Alone, they had gone; family and friends
tired of waiting for me to have time for
them. The October wind tells me I’m old.

Three hundred blank pages going sepia,
distant memories, love and laughter, too
late now; deep shadows obscure the past.