Not Yet.
Autumn does not leave your mind, like a threshed
meadow you lie
expectant of that falling day when he had
to go on his way
and you whisper his name.
Waiting does not leave your eyes, a pregnant look
bright with aliveness
deadens as the horizon you view, knowing
he cannot come
to you in flesh ever again.
His voice has not yet left your hearing as wishes
know it merely half-sleeps
and with the first secret daydream when
his name you repeat
memory drowns grief\'s pain.