The wind calls from the corners of the house,
Carrying dreams to distant hills,
In sleep, I sensed the owl
And heard the tall trees
talking in the dark.
When we were younger,
We caught the early bus
To small towns
And at the end,
We slow danced with the echoes:
Last songs in school halls.
It is cold.
This cold has crept upon us suddenly. For a while it seemed that winter had forgotten to come, but then, as we all were happy for the relative warm days, winter came as a thief in the night.
Through the open back door. And suddenly, we find that we are cold and have been for some time now, lulled into some false sense of hope by the mild temperatures. Now it is too late to do anything.
We have a carpet of yellow leaves that the wind collects and swirls across the garden, down the drive way and to our front door. It is as if they too want to come inside for heat.
A cold front came in yesterday, without you. You are warm where you are. I think of you. Not as often as I used too, but I still think of you. There is a hole now, that place where you were. I see people who remind me of you, of your space and habits.
I have them still, these memories. In that, I am fortunate, I am fortunate for having known you, for having experienced you.
The hose pipe hangs from the tree, so that it does not freeze on the frosted ground.