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.