For the third September in a row I held
A boy’s hand with pale fingers tight in my mind.
Autumn fell frozen in October’s girth and he was
Ripped away before the first snowflake fell, merciless.
Now his chapped lips decorate the Earth as tree bark while November
Takes her dear time in ending triumphantly.
There have been dreams of multicolored eyes
To mirror the falling leaves of a disintegrating season.
As the sky above blackens and chars, he haunts cemeteries
To find the last of the mourning widows of
Those who departed too early in the season.