With sponge-paint edging, yellow, red
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Autumn wields its twofold head.
Its warmth with gentle cloaking sun,
its bite, its hint of what’s to come.
The shriveled leaves hang from the vine
and wilted cornstalks march in line.
Where soothing sun melts morning frost,
lay rotting fruit; forgotten, tossed.
Then whiffs of football-practice-grass
and long, late shadows soon to pass.
We’ve mirth for fleeting moments shared
and fear of pending grief to bear.
So, walk this path with knotted grip
and sweatered shoulders, hip to hip,
in silence, walking, not a word,
yet hearts conversing; so absurd.
Yours says you’ll love me evermore.
Mine says I'll love you even more.
In peace we seek our special place;
you stop to wipe my teary face.
Alas, the tree that was once small;
it barely gave us shade at all.
Beside the mighty ice-age stone
on mossy patch, we sit alone.
And reminisce ‘bout that first time
we, young, in love and in our prime;
unveiled our souls, and joined as one
in this same spot, 'neath setting sun.
Ending now where we first started;
we’ll never be unfairly parted.
We drink the vial, just like we said
and summon fate on mossy bed.
Eyes locked, we steal one last, deep look,
I pray and clutch my worn Good Book.
“Farewell, my bride, the bells strike seven."
Eyes closed, I sigh, “We'll meet in heaven.”
Here, I share, with stark honesty, my life.