A ruckus of wind behind the trees
roils the primrose trail and startles
the wayward doe. A dull grey sky
looms as a late sundown darkens
the path where we said we would be:
a rendezvous by the quiet bluffs
where we would have seen the sun
set as we always do, but the overcast
sky is a crowd of clouds now, we
could barely see the crinkled yellow
leaf float like wafted cotton to damp
rocks below, taking forever. Like us.
The autumn of our years, we whisper.
A gust whistles an eerie trace of air:
It is cold. I took time hugging you.
---ALBERT B. CASUGA