In golden splendor do you sit
among the woods
surrounding your grave.
Romantics have sung
finer songs than I
about the state of your repose
in the autumnal glow.
I walk your path quietly,
hoping to see you barefoot
and tiny behind every tree.
I whisper your poems
like a conjurer,
hoping to lure your ghost
to walk with me.
But you stay quiet in your bower
and leave me to my solitude,
only dropping a polished acorn
onto the path like a consolation
for your missed company;
a sun-warmed promise
of next year’s spring.
~JL©2015