HOME

The slow tune of an Autumn breeze
thrills his nerves while walking home.
Hands press fair foliage flat 
on skinny shouldered tree.
White walls... two windows open wide
wave flames through glossy panes.
He wanders over twigs washed by a foggy sun,
light cracks of drumming hearts
and chuckles jingle as silver coins 
in the pockets of twilight.
The depth of breathing,
his palm now firmly guides
the key to unlock the door.
He enters home... 
The weather speaks of coming rain.

Paula Grenside's Questions:

The poem speaks of going home on an autumnal afternoon, but can be read as a metaphor for life and aging. Are the two meanings clear to the reader?

I'm not satisfied with " chuckles". Any suggestion?

Thank you.