I couldn’t see fall coming.
The memories and fire,
sweaters and sunshine,
closeness and tender hands.
Much gentler is the breeze
on autumn’s cascade,
than my gaze upon the maples.
Each leaf a drop of blood
emptying the canopy of my heart.
I wish for the impossible,
for a skyward leaf to rise and fly,
to fall into you,
to fall into blue.
I leave my door wide open.
The psithurism and dancing shade,
browning and new zinnias
unwinding and cold feet.
Much gentler is the song
of the welcome wren who wanders in,
than my voice upon the windowpanes.
Each flutter a breath of air
upon the nest of my heart.
I wish for the impossible,
for a message underwing,
to come home to you,
to land there, brand new.
I cover pages dark with ink.
For better at my worst,
in cursive and in print,
from dawn till dusk.
Much gentler is my soul,
in our places intertwined,
than my mind upon itself.
The cricket’s trill keeps time
as seasons pass within my heart.
I wish for the impossible,
for something I could do,
to see me through-
I’ll write to you.
Happy Birthday J.D.
