THIS COLD FALL MORNING

This cold fall morning,
this golden-brown fragile leaf
fallen from its home,
crumbles in my hand.
I can not hold it gently enough.

 

This cold fall morning,
this warm hand
now chilled and trembling,
struggles to understand
why leaves crumble so when held.

 

This cold fall morning
I can not hold you gently enough
to stop you from crumbling in my trembling hands
as you choose to fall away
from even this home.

 

This cold fall morning
I am chilled and trembling inside
as I realize I am loosing you.
I can not bare another loss

on this cold fall morning.

 

And so,
on this cold fall morning
I withdraw to the cold, dark earth
of my fulminate grief
to winter,

 

per chance to sleep;

 

per chance to dream.

 

 

p. donovan