The air is cold
The dirt is too
But the bench is warm
When I'm sitting next to you

All things must die
Even the beautiful rose
Must one day wither
So cutting those
To give them
To someone
And make them happy
Is better than
Them withering
On the stem

Spreads sun atoms all over the place,
It feels like the planet will soon stop moving.
The wind, like a baby, is playing
                      -  is building staircases from leaves,
It spins them around, then rests.
Trows seeds in the air: oak nuts, mushrooms
and tears,
                and, like fainted lovers in the night,
Waits for a harvest of snowflakes