It could’ve been a thought of you
Laid secret in September’s
Hollow, lost to colder winds
And whispers of a bitter
Trouble brushed across horizons
In untimely shades today.
It could’ve been your name
I heard mispoke through
Leaves and branches,
Hints of the unplanted seeds and
Unenduring chances echoed
Second after second as an
Epitaph for soil gone unsowed.
And so I’ve long abandoned
Harvests, for the winter’s here and
Green is trading places with a
Hardship in this sagging air whose
Laden rains care little for July.