Wither

Something inside me,
fragile, withers
Like the last light
Of a summer day
During camp when I was 16
My breath, fresh and undiluted
By weight, was light
In my chest

When the light dies, so fall
The last leaves dangling off
Of skeleton branches, scarred by
Heat and rot, the wood pulp has
Become a feast for termites

But I sit on the shore of a frigid mountain
Lake, taking in an Appalachian sunset
Unaware of the death around me as I
Marvel at the last light of a summer day