It’s pitch black at 8:30.

These August days will soon be over.

Autumn is on the way.

A new painting will cover earth.

Streams will run cool.

And frost will sting our hands as we walk through gardens of old.

Out where squash grew in colors of green and yellow.

The dew will seep into our shoes.

I never asked for your hand. You simply gave it.

Clutching tightly.

I smell you in my sleep.

Yet, you are far away.

So far. So far.

I gave you to the seasons.

May you never wither and die.

I’ll be waiting at the covered bridge.

Where wood smells of musty oak.

Breathe in this dream.

Come home.

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