Perhaps it was the fall,
the season of my birth,
where things tarnish
and decay, the leaves spatter
an astonishing palette
across the wet grass.

Perhaps,
it was the decline
in temperature-I need
a reason
you would turn against me-
that came between us,
Venus.

Our spring of still lifes,
Farmington River afternoons,
have fallen with the leaves.

©1998, Amy Hart.