you’d hear my footsteps,
beneath the crinkling leaves
you’d smell my scent,
among the rusty scenes
you’d feel me in the
woollen mittens against your cold cheeks,
and,
you’d see me,
underneath the golden hour in the mean.
seasons come and seasons go,
but it is only with me
that you don’t feel so low,
like a mother’s hum to a wailing child
come hither, let me
carry your worries for a while.
yet, like the coin of two faces,
i cannot stay.
but remember me
for i will always be,
underneath the golden hour
in the in-between.
Comments