I look for your face above in the trees,

up amongst the painted leaves.

Your cheeks would stick out, ruddy from the wind

the sun would catch your outward eye, giving it that added glint.

No, the trees here, I'm afraid, are all short and gnarled in ghastly ways.

You were always tall, willowy, pristine

but only on your better days.

These have roots that run shallow

subsisting on soil that is all too fallow.

Yours, as I recall, were twisted, tangled, running deep

deep enough to provide a home for me.

Impossible visitor! Why couldn't you ever simply stay?

Why did you feel as if yours was the way

all nature shares, this nothing-short-of-sad time of year?

Did you only take what you needed for nourishment and part without the

seduction of a near-sighted tear?

It falls like the first snow-

gone before the inevitable collision with the ground.

-

I look for your face in the buildings that overpower my fragile ego,

the silhouettes of modern architecture's facade passing me by without a single defining sound.

It is useless. At the station when I pick up the paper, they smile and tell me you left

weeks ago.

I remember the solstice, the equinox. In retrospect, I clearly see your reason

that red blood hazy in your arteries wanted you to go with the season.

And so you obey- you are uprooted, plucked from the surface. You are in the face of every refugee

that I see.

And that brings me to the corner outside my home

I wearily remove myself from the world; I am aware that I am alone.

When I come out for air, I grab onto the shoulder of any

sad stranger I may meet

and I feel intrepid, yet much too stupid

my eyes pausing for contemplation at my feet

I want to see you in the cheekbones, the facial structure, whatever it may be-

greeted by anonymity! I stagger off, warmed by a lovesick daze.

From my forest,

it seems you must have been razed.