There are those goodbyes;
You know the ones that crisp
and brown. Matte like leaves
against cold fenceposts and stay.
Long past the season, come spring,
congealed and molded; Pressed
and formed. Much the way I am

pressed and formed, blown
against the door. Congealed.
Clinging to those cold goodbyes
passed too soon, too abruptly
passed on breath, turned silent.
Too soon, after summer, after
I love you. After goodbye –

there is still and the matted
scent of brown, crisped
leaves. Crumbling.


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