I

see

no wood for the trees,

just limits and loss

and falling leaves;

falling for me.

 

You see

falling for me

as a mournful breeze

that cries at the cost

of the ultimate loss,

of me.

 

I see

an autumn scene

that tip-toed its trust

on the branches above,

for the promise of love,

and turning of us,

to we.

 

We see

well-seasoned lust

that sits on the cusp

as day turns to dusk

to dream, to greet,

the falling asleep

of us.

 

We see

no scene to believe,

no sign of reprieve,

just green turned to grief

as dying leaves

wilt under trees,

for us.