I never gave her a party. Dinner out
became the gift most years, or flowers cut
but not arranged, just wrapped in paper without
a trace of fall. A cake, perhaps. But what
would make a perfect day for her would be
a day where nothing special happened at all.
Today I rose and raked some sun-streaked leaves
and listened to their fragile, fading call:
a dry and helpless whispered breath. Dearheart,
you always said your only wish was just
to make me happy. Now that we're apart,
I'm thin as dying leaves that turn to dust.
O rake this selfish soul and help destroy
these painful, happy thoughts, but leave the joy.