waqt :: time

There where I lived, wind-touched
and fed on sun and rain,
tickled by insect feet,
sung to by birds at every hour
and cicadas on sultry afternoons,
was where I fell in love.
This is my new fall:
my love,
when he was orange-red,
was taken by a squirrel’s hands
to make a bed,
and I’m undone,
floating in a lazy spiral,
the grace of which
belies my death.

© 16 Nov 2008 Heather Quinn, as hera