This day under infinite gray. Yellow and orange trembles a bit against the low light. Staring out into a slow fall, nothing in November anchors my eye. Where are you?
Rain begins to patter a bare song. A burning persists with unseeable light. Missing are the syllables of our secret name. Missing is the contentment of place.
In a dream, Amherst called. Her bees and butterflies mentioned you, but it was the violets that sang of the sting. After the dream, a small glowing spur nestled on top of my heart. Presence struggles with mind. Whatever love is to you, show me. My eyes are dim with ache. Well, that's what I said to the sorrel sea of leaves.
Even now across the muck fields, the eye eats an expanse of black soil topped with illegitimate green – stolen hints of April – savored long after the deep, open-mouthed kiss. Acres race past before an eye can blink. So, too, the construction of time. Remembering is different than never forgetting, beloved.