Photo by S. Auberle
I asked you, once, what happens
when dreaming comes to an end.
When light that falls through the trees
no longer seems able to tend
to those dreams into which we leapt
long ago, now grown cold
and autumn closing in,
brash and blustery and bold
and wind stripping leaves bare
from trees that once sheltered us,
life and death beneath my feet
now become just dust.
Oh, my heart, help me remember
in every cold fire remains an ember.