the technicolor memories now laid over grass.
Yellow and auburn gowns at their feet,
the stark trees stand, shivering and nude.
All the world seems emptier, abandoned,
a shell of its former self.
Summer's vibrancy whisked away on the wind.
There is no room for pretense here.
If I close my eyes, the rustling sounds like rain and
if I am not careful
all I pretend I am
might get washed away.
Moments have passed we cannot use any more
and, our cloaks surrendered,
the trees and I
wait for spring.
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