It will come, the beauty of the leaves
with knowledge that, for beauty, all moisture
will have soaked to the ground, or the sun.
Colors, so many colors, and a turn—

but it is summer
and early morning sweats itself heavy
across shoulders. 

The grass is still damp—
a good eight inches of naked
growth.  I must mow, today,
in this heat.

Branches lay dead in a pile
at the corner of this enclosure.
Eight feet tall—in tribute
to the tree that broke for winter.
I must break them, again,
and again, to fit
into some measure
of disposal.

So much to do.  So many responsibilities
to tend.  To continue.  To keep
rolling on.  But

for now, I steal the sunrise.
Raise a red umbrella, to shield—

for coffee (from the pot you gave)
laced with vanilla sugar (from the batch you made)
and one last poem, while I wait

for the familiar message,
incoming and echoing

I love you too much, so I’m saying

goodbye.