Falling leaves,
a gentle breeze
wisp’d across the crooked walls.
I walked the quiet rooms
alone, as soon
I’ll bid farewell to each—
cursed to miss them all.

Here lives history.
Glorious memories will fade
in changing scenes to winter.
Through sleepless nights
I will recall bright
the lights of moments I may see
but may not enter.

So much has dawned
through mornings’ fog—
the songs of birds mixed in our bawling.
Dreams have so born
and met death, so worn.
Here, waking to silence, in ease,
ears hear crows sparsely calling.

2 thoughts on “Here”

    1. John Foster says:

      Thanks for reading and for your comment!

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