Through what fire and revelation,
what loves have scorched us so,
what vines have wrapped themselves
so sure around our feet,
what webs have we untangled,
left hanging in dusty cellars,
been left hanging on
bare walls.

What love have we longed for,
with what truth we have sought,
and seeds we have sown within
for the times which passed by
without a glimpse in our direction,
unrequited and bereft
of the dust which so dutifully
held us in place for too long.

For what is the matter
of such strife and martyrdom
in comparison to the love in which you have given,
and to what end have these things manifested
to become such stepping stones as
the things that
led me to
you.

Fallen leaves and Fall's color
brush against the longing in me,
tugging at dripping petals within,
seeing this season's change
with the absence of your presence,
without the branches of thoughts
I could plant and bear witness
come Spring.

Seasons bereft of you,
destitute in me,
and the unassuming way the barren limbs
pray to the skies above,
ask for when the grounds should again
be wet with life
and too when you should
step forth and give vitality
to this trammeled soil.

New blooms rise again,
the natural counterpart to the
decayed and rotted compost
of seasons since,
and so the sun shines longer,
brighter, and gives new hours
to your bright eyes
and seems to remind me of
the things we grow
together and the things
with which we begin this
love.