The Sound of First Frost

They used to talk in poetry

With breath that condensed in mid-air,

Creating semicolons -

lulling conversational eb and flow

Now they talk in stanzas

That feed off each other -

Greedily, offering gratitude to the forerunner.

I always loved it when they talked like that

Tying words into sentences

Pages into books

Turning like crisp copies of love -

Baked warm like cookies -

filling blank spaces with smooth transitions

And accents frozen in time

I always loved the sound of their voice

Hovering, waiting patiently to develop into an image

Of gently worded love letters

Colored and smoothed by a steady hand

I still hear their voice,

Dimming with the changes that they brought

Whispering in a new blast of cold, crisp air

Frosting over the bumps and bruises

Glazing over features like words on a page

And as I stand here listening

I notice

The early sunset falling like leaves from a tree