by Sylvia Stout

Three seasons Moon has been alone.

The winter after Autumn left was cold in its solitude.
Months he waited, still she hid.
spring brought hope only for the rain…
He imagined his lover’s familiar caress.
daring not to forget…
The hot summer nights became plagued with memories

of a time when the whole landscape changed colors in her honor
the air cooled to exhalt her
the tide rose to meet her

he was still alone, longing

he had fallen for Fall.

But she had always come back…
Unwilling to end their eternal love affair
she arrived at last,

ushered in on the wings of the wind,
she stripped leaves from trees a hundred years old
without a sound, with no need for touch…
just a gentle hush whispers
of an unstoppable machine

so powerful, she makes Moon hang his head low in the sky
eyes wide, breathing her name…
vying to be closer to her, he dotes,
scrawling love notes on the walls of his heart

he’s frozen,
suspended mere inches from her horizon.
their future written in the wrinkles of his face
he pines for her harvest…

their time together is much too ephemeral
exceedingly visceral and
poetically chemical

Their ending is always the same.
unabashedly honest,
He never wanes…
away with Time she will flee, but
never tragically…

Autumn always comes back.