Poetry
Autumn Nights
Her body warmth perched,
some times on cotton,
less times silk, never in flannel,
sans gown, flesh to sheet.
Cerebral journey portends,
a criss to the mind,
a cross to the heart, and ends
at the first wynd.
Where lies this crossroad,
now as my reach
from memory, to first berth,
flesh and sheet, at my beseech.
Like the bud on a tree
without leaves,
the cycle began, before us,
and these years together.
Here in our August,
looking to September,
we had our May, June, July,
and embrace our Autumn.
In golden sunsets
I frolick in her leaves,
and envision the limbs
tied to this trunk.
And as the leaves that curl
back into earth
foretell the bud of spring,
to make the branch the trunk.