The air grows cold. The leaves, once green,
Turn yellow, orange, and gold between
Brief moments spent outdoors. The call
Of birds of prey make forests crawl
With anxious creatures seldom seen.

Close by, as in some magazine,
A brook completes the perfect scene.
As humid summer yields to fall,
The air grows cold.

Soon winter comes: first Halloween,
Then heaters run on kerosene,
A knitted scarf and hat, a shawl,
But well before the snow and all,
The air grows cold.

Sprawled out on our cold bathroom floor there lies
A dog whose life is coming to a close.
His legs are numb; he’s blind and surely knows
The end is nigh. And yet, for now, he tries.
 
So, with the wall to guide his shaking gait
He wobbles to the kitchen for a drink.
If he’s in pain it doesn’t show. I think
He’ll live a few months more. And so, I’ll wait
And see how long we can delay the end,
Extend our time, repay this loyal pet,
Delay the dreaded trip home from the vet
Without our ever-present furry friend.
 
What self-inflicted torture we embrace,
To love when death’s the end we have to face.

These days I often pause to contemplate
How fortunate I am to share with you
Our struggles overcome which left our fate
Unbroken by the tempests rolling through.
God knows some days we've been denied a breeze;
However, we've survived the strongest gales
To right the ship and head for calmer seas,
Fair winds be damned as we unfurled the sails.
Until our voyage runs its natural course,
Land-sightings will be few and far between.
No hurricane nor like destructive force
Exists to make our journey less serene.
So long as you are with me on this trip,
Survival means I won't give up the ship.