Even more than the season’s red and its green,
I love the spare grey of the reeds and the
deep red of the blackberries,
after the frost
dying on the vine;
the prickly brown of seedpod brushes,
the dun of the far fields;
As the wan winter daylight
drops into a brilliant
Second solstice without you,
and I feel your touch at my shoulder,
see your face in the sky,
your breath in the mist over the valley;
Pacific tree frog chorus,
hawk hovering over its prey.
Sere winter light,
snow on distant mountains,
blaze of crimson on a stand of maples,
dry silvery boughs on a clump of sedge.
As impossible as it may be,
as time takes you further away from me,
I must learn to find a way forward.
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