When among the trees will autumn come?
What multitude of words will I have lost
among the soft-dying of sweet summer poppies,
if time, as victor to any chance of rest,
should turn away your sweet-sad eyes from me;
your dying flowers and weeping tree leaves,
your tears of fall that pool below your feet,
or your glad singing through the canopy
all leaves me drifting and wholly changed
as the reds of your hair have left this world
and I can’t wait to see autumn again.
This is a recent piece of poetry about loss and the pain of loosing someone close to you. I is never easy, and always painful.