You aren’t coming back.
The flowers are now soil.
Beautiful, beautiful compost we had, the month you died,
And similar layers of dying colour
Have filled all my days since.
The dogs will turn when I say your name.
Not with their ardent wish,
But with resignation;
And I still say your name,
To anyone who will listen.
Your trail is turning cold.
I hope you’ve found your footprint,
That I will get to follow,
And when I reach it, we will know.
That the last day of autumn, every year,
Is not the last of you.
© Michael Burge, all rights reserved.
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