November

The stillness of a November afternoon

lies heavy across the lawn strewn 

with sticky, damp leaves.

And I swoon at the memory of you.

Of all that was lost

and might have been.

I cannot see beyond myself, sometimes,

heaped too high.

I will leave this pilgrim place,

one day,

for a new creation.

Where love will wipe all sorrow away

and cast our tears, yours and mine, 
to the glory of the wind,

Where hope will gather us together, forever, again.