The days lit orange, falling westward
across horizons, city streets
they never counted on passing by.
The leaves burnt so gold it stings
the eye, September cut and spilled
already when I wasn't watching.
I didn't notice green had bled
again, the soil cellar damp.
The summer fled millennia
ago – ages steeped and gone
in minutes, hours, underground.
My feet press on tiny graves.
A maple sheds away the dead,
while my veins are tied to bone.
For this you will outlive me.
As a reprieve, you drop a leaf
to my cheek where it falls
to kiss me and bless me before I die.
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