Groups of words cluster to our conversation like leaves on branches and the trunk of a tree,
Some are full of life, others show the wear and tear of three seasons and land at our rooted feet,
The sunshine streams through your flaxen hair and I begin not to care where and why we are,
Suddenly, as you talk, your soft voice ebbs in my mind, this is goodbye,
I go back to that letter, my eyes glaze over, I see your face, so close, so alive,
you wrote, "Dear Darrell" in an echo of your accent, but ends with au revoir
are you really
sitting in front
of me, after time,
has done it's best
to make me forget,
and not kick all the
dry words into the
wind so they get
carried away and
be dashed across the
now frosty earth,
ending up bruised,
forever, like me.
could have said "dear john"