while the lights of the house flickered in the distance,
the grey clouds above struggled to offer a downpour.
i strolled the grounds waiting for your return
but you would not come-
not now, not ever.
* * *
spring came and the flowers attacked the hills
while the wind whipped its way through the painted sky,
i sat under the great oak, reading my books and writing my poems
until a terrible cough of wind, blew some of my thoughts away.
with nature’s indiscreet gesture, i am left with the chill of who you were.
portiaganymede23 