Chasing the Sun

The suns reflection on the window masks the face staring out at nothing but the autumn leaves; crimson, gold, and orange, seeming to dance among the thick grove of trees. The wind sweeps them around in circles, forming a multitude of kaleidoscopic tempests, putting on a show for an audience of one.
The man sits in his wooden chair by the window, taut and stoic. The room around him is unadorned, much like the man himself. A sparse fire staunchly endures in a fireplace which appears to be made more of rubble than actual stone. As the sun reflects on the window, so does the climate mirror in the man’s eyes.
He sees not only the performance of creation but the shadows of his life. Gazing into the foliage as it twirls he is aware of an inner movement. He sees a woman with a small child before her. She looks tired but happy, shadowed halos around her mouth and eyes. She pulls the boy to her so he can not see the tears gently beginning to swell. Nonetheless the boy knows. With a waft of wind the leaves scatter and the image disappears.
In the shadows near the hedge where the leaves lie low, illusively bowing before their former host as the wind gives soft instruction to their movements, sits a young woman. Her face is flamed with a radiance only young love can afford. She reaches out towards the man, wanting him to take her hand, as the shadows overtake her and she is gone.
As the sun slowly descends beyond the line of trees a lifetime of reflections come and go until all the man can see is darkness. He bows his head, not in sorrow for what was, but for what he has become. The flames whisper in the hearth, casting dancing shadows on the walls. The man raises his eyes registering his reflection with a start. The image looking back is that of a young man.