|
|
|
It surprised me, a little.
Not that the red
gold leaves had fled the
trees to do their Dervish dance macabre on
the bride white ground to let me know that
it was seriously
Autumn but that I had not
thought of you since April and your birthday.
That Sunday I took the little book of your
verses and read
them out loud until I cried .
You would have smiled at that. Smiled,
not
laughed. You never laughed at me though I
often gave you
reason to.
Only you could die in Egypt, in a tomb
reserved
for kings. Only you could give that
final act the polish of a true
professional.
You up-stager, you grand stander. I do miss you.
Especially now, when the world turns red
and gold and white, turns
seriously Autumn.
Who is to dance in the heaps of leaves?
|