Second autumn comes to us with a cloud
Built by the hands of well-wishing gods
Our leaves now have a layer of grey-dew
They left without knowing our garden
We should have looked after our alyssum
Watered our iberis, sang to our daisies
Our music should have slipped into the
Breeze of fall knocking our first home
But we are quiet lovers. We fuse into
our forgiving skins holding onto desire.
We carry on with our tender dance.
We flow in the grey rivers of each other.
And we let fog of that cloud fill our
backyard of autumn. We let the dewdrops
build our sea of distant moons bit by bit.