The sole tragedy being that I
am not to share it with you.
That your soles will never bite
the dust-- floor of my front porch,
will never hear the sharp crunch
of an auburn-haired leaf, an untamed
personality, one who left home. I could
paint it for you: sway of nimble branches;
birds cloaked in red searching for home;
puddle of syrup; a rainboot mid-air; the
old Forest merciful in the gentle aging
that comes. But what of the vivid chirping
and crisp breeze that only makes our
sweet fire burn louder? My lone solace
being that I shall try to show you these
in steady love.