Where does it go, when the hair recedes—and why does it leave?

And will I go like that too, without any notice

but more a long, slow fade

like snow thawing in a field—

And are we just that then, coming and going?

The right combination of elements

reincorporated,

our season of being, now.

Categories: death, poetry

Tags: existentialism, midlife crisis, mortality, nature imagery, nature poetry, poem, poetry, the meaning of existence, the meaning of life, William Pearse writer