Old Love

She must be ninety in her breezy

white linen long skirt

and broad-brimmed bonnet.

No smile for me

but only for her inconceivably older


whose hand she holds as they

shish and shuffle through the leaves

(as dry as their skin and voices)

on an endless journey through the park,

holding hands and seeing it

in a way that those of us

with somewhere to go


, , ,

Here they come back the other way.

He's in strawhat and suspenders,


These never-enders

have no time for me.

But I love their Love in Autumn,

their Winterlove in Autumn,

and thank them for this lovely chance to see

the thing that ever seems unreal,

that Love goes past the need to feel

and thrives as deeply as the root

while lovely leaves

die underfoot.

T. Senecal


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