I've missed these slow-moving autumn days,
the gray and muted morning easing
imperceptibly into afternoon, the hours,
and sovereignty among the chill mist of river,
threads of woodsmoke without source,
dogs nosing bits of earth suddenly remembered.
I've missed them in the way that I miss you,
and I miss you in ways I do not yet understand;
you who exist to me now only in the telling,
and in the silence between speech, grown longer
with age, not with hesitation but knowing.
I've missed trying to write it all down,
the familiarity of leaving for the sake of leaving,
when everywhere is suddenly north, the steady work
of window gazing, the very luxury of failing.
I've missed the leaves flaming up in their descent,
becoming as open as books, their veiny spines
withered and cracking, each life a secret
unto itself, each history whispered in passing,
each an ending, and none of them final.
