I can't remember what the question was,
but I know it involved oak and maple leaves
rotting in autumn rains, cold winds and fog.
Perhaps something about the passage of days,
gray stubble on my chin in the mirror,
a new season, the ice-bound heart.
I saw her sitting beside me on the couch,
a wine glass in her hand, soft jazz playing,
then realized it was only a ghost.
Empty days pass one after the other,
a parade of memories, her sleeping body
beside me, hot coffee on quiet mornings.
I watch the clouds drift by, wonder
why it never rains, miss the damp
comfort of autumn nights, the chill.
I still don't know the question, but
I know it involves loss, the only constant
in a life devoid of falling leaves.