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.