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.