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
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,
whistling over ages.