light peels away winter’s veil;
tall sycamores against autumn sun
and your rough hands through the bends
of this dun grove.
it is November and already the city floods
with snow. we stand outside the small café,
woolen coat from
broad shoulders, a shadowy Adonis in this
in April, the dogwoods will bloom on
on the doorstep and the sun blooming
against old glass windows;
the quiet light of spring sorrow.
the elbows of my corduroy have worn smooth
and I hold your side as he last leaf of autumn passes on.