Fragrant with honeysuckle trumpets,
the entwined year waxes.
Catch its essence as you can,
for this is not an exact time.
Days already dwindle,
cast longer shadows, settle on
their red and amber reckoning.
Every new encounter
is the beginning of goodbye,
and I have been going away
for as long as it takes
to trace our lineage in the stars.
You might chance on the evidence
in cuttings, between pages;
suppose them the wilful bookmarks
of that ghost father I shall be.
But there’s no need to look:
always, among the gathered moths,
you may sense me, lighting weightless
on your sleeve. No more leaves
to fall than once were grown in spring.
ix. 2023
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