Yesterday the leaves on the trees were clapping for you
the wind all reckless and wild-fresh
gusting with imaginings of us, of memories
sloughed off with time yet
lingering in papery veins.
I made a picture, dark crayons distress
crackle paint, oil pastels?
I couldn't find a medium that fit
or was made to last, or had the tonal values
to tell me you'd be gone
long before the painting dried.
And so this resignation: did you catch
the right emotions, did I offer the perfect landscape?
The voices of trees speak for themselves.
I hope one day you find what you love
and I hope one day, you love
what you find.