last strand of season
braided into
next,
which colors beckon
birth?
enwombed in soil,
why stay?
when dream was
to become
bouquet.
seasons
a humble heap
of leaves,
shaken from home
tree,
some appear nearly
alive,
others bake like bones
of summer,
stripped of pigment
but still
magic,
in tragic but
forgiving
light.
within winter’s fading
breath
floods a freshness that
turns the
cynic,
sentimental flowers on the tips
of our tongues,
view clear blue sky
for days to
come?
when winter
folds
and
spring behaves
i’ll be
at your door
but not a teardrop
before
you emerge from
grave.
dreams
of ice cream
on a snow
day,
dripping down
the cone,
with flashbacks to
summer
sun
melting on my
tongue.
with autumn but
a memory
on winter’s
voice
i hear you in
its rasp,
and still feel you
in its frigid
grasp
as heartbeats
slow,
with springtime but
a reverie
i draw you from
from our
past,
to free those shivering
leaves from
heaps of
snow.
you took to the
winter
just like your
mother
and buried that
face in its
chest,
while i watched
in envy
from warm side of
the window
where my cheek remains
pressed.
last leaf on
a tree,
the last to shun
its destiny
of touching
down..
of kissing
ground..
of accepting what
shall be.
noon’s brisk air
beckons–
yet, i dig in
deeper
sinking myself
further..
to be forgotten
by december.
symphony of
a rose
fleeting on
summer’s breath,
first frost upon
the meadow,
flower’s echo but
the shadow
of seasonal
unrest.
hands in the garden 
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