A New Season
 
this is not a poem about autumn
 
though you might guess so if you
saw me writing here
            in quiet woods
            while a soft breeze loosens
                        another sycamore leaf
 
            where squirrels skitter and skeetch
                        over mounds of fallen pine needles
                        follow a fading memory
 
this is not a poem about death
 
            though soon these woods
            will announce the strange
            loveliness of leaving
            with a riot of red and gold
 
you left me in autumn
you have never left me
both will always be so
 
this is not a poem about you
 
I’ve spread those poems across
the endless nights now
I’m weary of ruin
 

alone

I am alone

that may always be so

 

this is not a poem about me

 

the lake is alive now

sun and wind play on the surface

 

I am alive

watch a new season arrive

 

sometimes

this is how

a love poem

ends