The touch of my own hand draws weary,
long gone the soft skin of another
that would in street or field squeeze
between my ungloved fingers
a head turning smile
that had no needs for words.
Once the cinder path would make the only sound,
uniform under foot we walked our own pace,
oblivious to life’s diverging reasons;
now the clock between us says the most
and we find ourselves painfully lost
in the middle of a sentence
that is mirrored only
by the depth of the season.
I, alone, open my eyes
and inhale the weather just to see
the last leaf falling from the giving tree,
the demise of autumn,
the remains of regrets that lie on my tongue
will feed me through the winter
as I withdraw from the light
and hibernate from love.
© D. Archer. October 2012