The mustard yellow of summer is promising to fade
While the deep green of oaks and hickory nod an acquiescent surrender.
I long for the winds of November, the brittle brown leaves upon the ground
The puff of breath that goes before me and lingers in fog along my path.
I think of the shuffle and snuffle of my dog log since buried near to here.
No, I’ve never had the courage for another.
I’ve decided that age is a good thing; looking at the ending is a comfort.
There are too many people buried, too many dreams dying like the pumpkin vine.
The path is cooler, better settled for my walk, and finally there is peace with my step.
I can handle the sorrow I expect to mourn, and I do.
I miss holding your hand, listening to the dog bark ahead of us and the sound of your voice calling him back.
There is solace in being alone too. Your absence has taught me that.