The falling

I think of you—
a bud,
almost green,
almost unfurled,
straining toward spring.

Then casting aside
the baby shell,
opening,
filling your veins
with sun and rain;
drinking life,
radiating beauty.

“Summer
is Forever,”
I thought,
never seeing
the day when
you would turn,
curl,
dangle.

Then drop,
a bit of brittle
parchment,
a dying skeleton,
on the cold,
grinding,
concrete.

Tossed
to spin
and settle
against an alley wall;
part of the litter,
shuffled
by uncaring coils
of wind.

And so
I silently wail
at the dead promise,
staring at
what is—
a husk of
what should
have been.