Religions foretell the end of days with signs–
of a western sunrise, of a sky with seven suns,
of the moon and sun vanishing, forebodings, fears,
tribulations, the menace of armies surrounding Jerusalem,
then a new age of triumph, devastation, or uncertainty.

When do childhood days end, or the best days
of one’s life? Do signs point to the change
like the erratic shifting of a wind vane until it steadies,
and then is there a new age of blowing gales
or warming winds that thaw the ice?

The low winter sun reaches through my south windows
through golden midday hours, the shifting angles portents
marking the moving of time. Then sunset gathers
in gray shrouds, or wanton raiment, or the austere sun
sinks alone in the paling sky. My days end tinged
with resigned sorrow over the passing of things
irretrievable and valuable, a disappointment that I did not
catch more of them in my net–the red maple leaf
fallen like a brooch in the rain pool, a poem’s agile line
striking with wisdom, the chattering of small marsh birds,
joy at children running in a green park. The end of days
comes soon, and the circuitry of the heavens bears witness.