The ground was thick with it, Nature's litter.  Trees that once were plush green, had put on one last fiery show and shook off what they could no longer support. They settled for clean lines and a greyed minimalism; settled in for the grey austerity of a long winter.

"Autumn is not death" she said."The sweet smell of decay. The forsaken leaves, the fallen, unwanted fruit. This is the preparation. It only seems final, because it may be our last chance."

Time ran on before us
It closed the day
  It took our shadows
that had cast long ahead
I couldn't see where
We were going anymore


The snow came down slowly, silently, danced carelessly and without purpose.  Each flake disappeared at contact with earth, succumbing to the warmth of its landing site.  It was late October and the preparation was not complete. It comes back to me now. Each word strikes my memory as my feet strike the cold pavement and the echo of an uncertain gait returns to me from hollow streets. I wonder how many times I heard, not understanding?

She stood in the street
Her eyes were never upon me
The air was thick and white
Choking thick and white
Tornadoes swirled in doorways
Brown leaves dancing with the wind

"Winter symbolizes death" she said.  "But if this were death, I would die readily. A death soft and pure.  A death too beautiful for me."

I could only stand and look at her eyes, glacial and tearful.  I wanted to know what she would not say; wanted to know that which she protected from my discovery.

What have you found in the garden?
(now sere and brown
the beds of summer's blooms
hard and dry)
What seeds of her sorrow
lie under this gathering blanket?

"Spring is not rebirth, only exhumation" she told me.  "It is a falling away from grace, it is an unearthing.  Beauty and serenity melt away.  It is my death."

Love went on without us
It marched on through spring
She was gone from me
and I from her