A Season For Dying

I remember dark nights
Walking miles of mountain road,
Talking while leaves fell
From trees like the shadows
Of small sparrows descending.

She was the lady who made me feel
Like a boy holding the hand of a girl.

Telephone poles cast shadowcrosses
High onto the mountain, and
Lit only by the moon, lonely, level
Fields on the heavy-angled slope
Looked like buriel grounds.

Her kisses were diamonds.
I was never rich.

Sometimes we would lie
Beneath rising pine trees
On the midnight moistened grass
And watch the way the night fell.