There were blank pages

scattered inside the book.

He thought he'd reached the end

with his pen,

but the wind had blown the paper leaves

and he lost his place

in places,

leaving empty pages from the past.


Now reading, he examined his path;

wondered what he would have written,

where he might have gone,

back in those blustery days,

when he felt behind on life

and that so much

was already behind him

as the storm whipped more pages past.


Fast, he thought,

savoring December's breath on eyelids.

It all goes by so fast.


But it felt like forever,

eternal words

whistling over ages.

AuthorDerek Franz