Autumn morning
Old man hands picking apples
A woman hangs out laundry in the sun
I feel the wind touching the leaves
The bird flies across the field
Memories are born in a person
The story of a long road

It’s getting to that time of year;
Where life dulls,
Hearts tighten,
And days just mull through.

Because when the air becomes frigid
And life passes in slow motion;
Dread piles,
Like the dead leaves on the ground.

And when I feel that familiar unnerving tug
Like a leaf that tries to hold on,
As the chill of autumn approaches;
I know that
We’re closing in on another year
Without you,
Mom.

Must have seen you in a field,
the trampled grass your bed,
your eyes fixed on the sky,
and the sky hanging on blooming fire
and leaves of ashes eloping with autumn–tainted summer.
You didn’t stir,
if not for the fence time drove into the paper soil in between us the song of chaos will probably sing it’s ominous song in my ears.
Not an inch, did you move.

Your thoughts might have been that of your mama, on her porch steps for the hundreds of dinner that waited cold for you that year.
Your papa must have passed a ball to a glove without a hand to hold it up.
Your dear Anna must have been trembling as her heart skipped a beat reading letters written open-endedly.
The hills around you stood mortally wounded, weeping for their trees, still you slept in between those pages while your home collected dust on the shelves that so few of us care to visit.

Still your eyes were fixed on the sky. Unmoved by clouds. Unperturbed by dying sunshine. Shards and shrapnel of ideas burrowing deeper. I knew your lips wanted to part and utter wilting words,perhaps the heaviest word to bear—goodbye.

War has always been indifferent to life.

Gray hairs sprouting up like testimonies
The smoke from burning bridges makes it hard to see
If I can walk back across to the other side
Just to tell you I always cared, affectionately

Leaves never fall the same way twice
To see them drop again, a kaleidoscope in descent
Pieces that come together to make a new puzzle
Under the tree, between the jigsaw creases are we both in?

It’s not the dank, damp, grey days.
It’s not the drizzle that seeps through the seams of my coat.
It’s not the dark mornings.
It’s not the dark evenings.

It’s the crisp air of an early morning frost.
It’s the spiders’ webs glistening with frozen dew.
It’s the shades and hues as the leaves turn golden.
It’s the peace and quiet as nature settles down for her long sleep.