With life’s grand plot, beginnings, endings meet;
False starts, like coats, lie scattered on the floor.
Each misstep sown in fertile soil, discreet,
A seed of self, of what might lie in store.
The autumn leaf, in fiery hues arrayed,
Foretells of winter’s chill, yet whispers spring.
In endings, summer’s worth is oft displayed,
Rebirth from fall, a promise to cling.
Time nips us with each step and stumble made,
Each path winding, a course aplan our art.
The mosaic of days in plots we made,
Each misstep a tile, wandering chart.
Yet, remember, for life’s final hours take night:
A yard abud with garden is no slight.