Nature can stir the tiniest
of emotions in the soul of those
who have known love and cherished it.
An errant foot or shovel
on this day might uncover,
beneath the inches of
winter white and dirt,
a pile of special colored leaves
completely turned into confetti dust,
from the passage of times shredder.
Thus without even seeking such
remnants of the past, I know that
somewhere in that soft loam buried,
far below the surface of now,
are the leaves that swayed green
with envy, when I kissed her.
The leaves that danced before our feet
as we walked hand in hand,
and the same leaves that blushed
orange and red, when I tumbled with her
in a fall onto a mound of them,
where we made love in the sweetly scented
piles of Autumn's glory.
Often now, even years later,
when the leaves rustle across the fields,
or the scent of Autumn makes me
Nostrildamous in reverse,
I think of her and of those
leavings of yesteryear's,
now fertilizing the fallow earth
and all of my precious memories as well
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