He grunts a harsh bark, to shake me from my reverie but still I dream. They are gentle visions filled with forest pathways touched by autumn’s hand. Red. Gold. Tawny brown. The color of leaves. The color of the softness that wreaths his face.
Like the trees of my mind’s eye, he also bears the caress of time. Age crinkles at the corners of his laughing eyes, whispers a dusting of snow upon his temples, drags a creaking heaviness from his steps.
Untouched by time, I share his fading.
Yes, he’s my autumn, too soon to fall into winter.