Letter to Maine.

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Dearest,
The wheel has turned once more to autumn.
Bringing with it, as always, thoughts of you.
It has become habit to miss you in the fall,
A ritual of season, as intrinsic as migration
To the noisy formations of geese filling the sky.
The petals of your roses have long since
Dried to powder and your picture no longer
Slices me into motes. I could perhaps read
Your letters once more and not shatter.
Still, the coming of autumn summons
A longing to be elsewhere, to be wherever you are.
So, I stare into the deepening morning light,
Letting my thoughts take starling flight.
They scatter like buckshot in the early mist,
And I cannot see where they will fall.
I wonder if an autumn will ever arrive without desire
Or must I shed you every year like a maple
Drops fiery leaves once green with promise.
Even as I make my annual farewell to you,
I remain, as always, yours.


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