A week blew by

A week blew by, Death's fingers through my hair
and rifled through the pages of my calendar.
I watched the Winter ride in on a storm
and knew the last Winter I saw would look just so.
I stood on rain-drenched pavement before dusk
in light that seemed to be of the Apocalypse.
Ev'ry hour spent in waste
Urges Death to greater haste.

I looked up at the sun just as it set
and knew that I had lost what was most precious;
for when I am too old to sit outside
will I not curse myself for missing such a thing?
When my lungs are empty, how I will wish
that I might fill them with a cleaner air once more.
And yet I sit here writing
for the wind is biting.