It wasn't fall when he died, closer to winter's heart, when birds abandon bare trees, dew sets forth its layers. No delicate blossoms lined our path, none of spring's hopeful renewal, just tired trudging, winter's dirty boots, a sterile hospital room unfit for a two year old's play. He unhinged from existence, a blazing gold leaf fluttering in autumn afternoon breeze. He took flight, marking grief's season. We grouped, pile of leaves shed, around his hospital bed, then his memory.
