The world tilts far enough now
Where summer is almost a secret,
And lifetimes can easily pass in the still air.

During our walks, then,
Over brilliant orange, gold and new sky,
Her sadness came to be:
Neatly placed
Into the yielding grasp
Of a freshly fallen maple leaf.
Then, sealed into a shiny blue envelope:
Scribbled on,
When short notes were a thing
Of long Sunday afternoons.

Moving water is still great at counting time now,
And will soon lap at the stone steps
Of a clapboard church out there,
Hosting the wailing choirs
Of straggled people turned sane again.

Sam A. Flanagan