Angled sunbeams
move about the floor
return, alluding to melding seasons.
We talk
of those things
that mark our lives.
Comings, goings,
passages filling our days
with plans, dreams.
Was it only yesterday?
Now, we talk of red maples
turned bare against the palling sky,
feel the chilled wind.
This autumn of our year
we, sit quiet.
You, framed in shades of gray
delicate as morning dew to midday sun.
At last alone,
about this old kitchen table
briefly our hands touch
as if not meant,
recoil from the singe
of unfamiliarity.
Like pulled back hands,
eyes meet, avert,
to that lifelong window
of talked about changing seasons.
And still,
we speak of other things.
