Seasonal Resuscitation

In autumn’s breath I find

My leaves half-stirred now rest

The words which whispered of our days

Flow quickly from the west.

Though stripped of caution’s voice I rise

To answer thee in pen

Then fall to sleep upon the gaze

Till winter’s come again.

Then I awake in frozen field

Of muted sound and snow,

To trace our past within my tracks

Where you may never go.

Till frost doth bite upon my heels

And cry for bitter end

Till I shall see thy face in stars

Yet never call you “friend.”