The porch, drenched in silver moonlight,
Holds hues of a fading sun etched on distant skies
Gone long ago, yet its warmth still replays.
Lilacs, pale as faded dreams,
And ruby roses, vivid as remembered passion,
Stir the still autumn air.
The driveway, once swept clean by summer’s hand.
Now cradles petals as fresh as the first breath of spring,
Filling my heart with a warm, intoxicating scent,
A gentle siesta of memory on a crisp fall day,
Arriving like echoes on a cold winter morn,
As if the remnants of a departed soul linger still.
The closet is bare,
The familiar couch sits in silent witness,
Clothes no longer hang in the wardrobe,
Shoes find new life in caring hands,
And a cherished watch endures as a family heirloom.
Yet,
Who is it that treads these shores each day,
Where rising tides swirl into a relentless whirlwind?
A tornado, a force in which I neither drown
Nor entirely survive.