Here I am again,
High up over High Street,
Surveying Autumn from atop my old lady’s residence. 

Everything looks so lovely before it’s forced to die.
Leaves are the loveliest.

And I ask myself,
“Why must my hair go grey when I get old? Why not indigo with bloody tints? Or flaxen with an underbelly of auburn?”

It will die and fall from me like any old head dress of leaves.

But I do not plan to dye my hair when I grow old and grey.
I only wish to look as lovely as an Autumn Aspen when in my time of dying.