Stoppage Time Poem by John F. McCullagh

The fallen leaves of red and gold await me and my rake.
As I ‘m in a reflective mood, they'll simply have to wait.
I am in my sixties now, my body feels the cold.
I know I am no longer young, yet am I really old?
I admire nature's bold broad strokes; these brightly colored leaves.
(I would enjoy them twice as much if they'd vanish on a breeze)
Soon I'll have them raked and bagged for the garbage man to take.
(We used to burn them in years gone by, but that was a mistake.)
Now in the autumn of my life, on this crisp October morn,
My life's choices have all been made and all my children born.
Time, surely, I must yet have time to sing the song of life;
time to enjoy our quiet house, just me and the wife.
A time when I'll compose bad verse, influenced by red wine.
Yet who among us can be sure they're not on stoppage time.
Should I fall, prematurely, like these leaves of gold and red,
I hope all I have loved in life speak kindly of the dead.