I can still remember those cool days,
yon days, when youth of ours danced
like a dragonfly through the reeds
and in the sky.
We wished for so many things, so much
truth, to brighten our youth. I recall your
candid whispers about pocketing the
integrity of the stars; smiling as though
a mandatory thief.
And the truth, it fell, it fell swiftly
from the trees as though the purple autumn
was ending prematurely. It raced through
the sky like wild horses with muscles
quivering in anticipation of the
upcoming winter.
And we laughed, and we smiled,
mischievous children with some secret
to keep--we held hands in the paddock,
taboo, as the leaves and truth fell
around us. We absorbed it all, all on
those cool days, knowing somehow we
survived their golden fall.
It's been a long winter, and I still wait for
the solstice. You've gone now, gone with
the truth that faded into the ground, nourishing
the diacritic earth. But I framed you on
the mantle with what I gathered on
those days of ours. And I know that your
perennial return is eminent. It's but
a matter of when you direct the
seasons through the hoops of flowers
and the rainy tunnels of light--before the
truth will come and fall again.