what is it in the beauty of this wondrous fall day that

strikes deep with a hopelessness 

and curries a wish for clouds to share my melancholy

and wants for a slashing rain to beat on these windows 

that would have so gladly looked out to watch for you

so gladly sought out only you among all others

but cannot

for want of a light 

for want of a word that you would come 

for want of a moment that should be ours

that should be here

but is not

the roses should not still be reaching out with buds 

to embrace the sun for their moment 

and the maples should not be so richly swayed 

by the breeze to shed their red joy—

the deception of this glorious blue day is 

a marvelous ruse

to welcome a new skeptic to the truth 

the evidence of love not bright 

with an eternal sun of possibilities,

but is instead an everlasting brilliance 

ushering in the midnight of never