Here, evening mist has nothing to hold
but the trees. Autumn has not yet plucked
the last of the leaves. For me, it’s that time
of day, that time of year, when poems come.
Oh, that ache to be here, to be heard. Surely, soon.
You relieve it with love, always did. My dear,
I saw how you picked up his scarf on our way
out, the old one you said he won’t wear
any more. I see you wearing it now, worn side in.
* * *
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