Wendy Leaves.

Beneath the rusted oak she

pushes back her cloak

of hair, black as the shadows

underneath the tree’s limbs, reveals

green, watered eyes - sealed

as she gestures the end

of it all with a firm, brisk shake of her head.

Leaves fall under the weight

of sunlight.

A rainfall of oranges, reds and he,

still as autumn’s breath – feels

yellow, old and lost

before her departure.

Leaves in his hair, in

his heart, in his ears, his mouth –

his senses clogged with the past.

In the middle of a mound

he suffocates.

Stars fall into the abyss.

The heat of death, of lost thoughts - a lost

boy, arms spread yet

unable to leave the earth.

In autumn’s fragile light, the blight

of leaves, and Wendy’s straight back, smites

as she moves away in farewell.

The statue behind, lips pursed, hands cup

an acorn for a heart. Passers-by pay it

no heed - another familiar object

gathers moss in their busy dreams.

Wendy leaves - shards fall; a curtain call.

Everything must end, the knowledge, like autumn,

comes in cycles. First we forget, then we believe -

and throughout the months and days

and horrible moments, Wendy leaves.