To sum up the months

I consider
the sunflowers,
stalks gnarled,
bulging flowers desiccated,
drooping downward
like a lover's head
just before
the fall.
I stare at this dying,
like my own,
it comes,
whether prepared or not.
But I feel no sadness.
I've made peace with
my days.
They've carried me,
buoyant, like a summer stream
to this point.
I revel
in the artful
chaos of undergrowth and vines,
the slow parade of clouds,
the mystery of cerulean blue
that drives me deeper
into the place
I wish to stay.
But I hear the sun
screaming my name,
your days are numbered,
and there's only time
to walk away.