by Wilda Morris
Autumn color is fading
from the earth as the pink
faded from your cheeks.
The sky, its blue siphoned off
by some cosmic
hypodermic, is thick and dull,
like your once-blue eyes,
deadened with pain, then morphine.
I feel the chill, note wind-induced tremors,
seizures among bushes, through fields,
which I—again—am helpless to prevent.
Soon fresh, wet snow will cover everything.
When spring awakens the earth,
I will look in vain for your smile
among the golden daffodils.