the slightest
autumn breeze
fans the blaze
of summer's
faded green—
tugs at the frail
leaves of
memory's trees,
reminding the penitent
who now brace
for winter
of a distant sea
of aquamarine,
placid and reflective
of those skies
above of endless
daylight,
and that humid hum
of bliss which seemed
to overlay each night
and sing the praises
of everything
it was in life
and the legend
of how it would
come to be
eventually
so fondly mistaken
for everything it wasn't.
