It is found not in the subtle petals of new.
Nor in the light rain on sullied earth.
Not in the frost that scurries across the window
But in the rust-coloured grounds of October.

In the fall, in the fall
In the freshly browned leaves
In the warm cup of tea
In the shiver down my spine
In the last few days of sun
In the ice that fills your lungs
In the end ever encroaching
In the time ever slipping

That's where love-