Throw open autumn. They have
returned, August sun in their faces.
And you have accomplished
little and not much in their absence.
You are struck that a gift of tangelos
are love’s flame. You wonder if your
arms just might not let go. And you
die a little when you realize that you
have nothing, but you to give in return.
They squeeze you, taking the oxygen
from your lungs to make room for new.
Their milk chocolate baubles are a
romance with sequels, and their eyes
never leave you because in a way, you
were gone, too.