Wind moves in the trees behind the trees, and a small yellow leaf tumbles down from the overcast sky, taking its time to reach the ground.



    A ruckus of wind behind the trees
    roils the primrose trail and startles
    the wayward doe. A dull grey sky
    looms as a late sundown darkens
    the path where we said we would be:
    a rendezvous by the quiet bluffs
    where we would have seen the sun
    set as we always do, but the overcast
    sky is a crowd of clouds now, we
    could barely see the crinkled yellow
    leaf float like wafted cotton to damp
    rocks below, taking forever. Like us.
    The autumn of our years, we whisper.
    A gust whistles an eerie trace of air:
    It is cold. I took time hugging you.

    —Albert B. Casuga

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