today, this day, we have,
 but others had them, too —
 a place midst moving out and
 holding still —

the autumn sings a song of
 what is here and gone:
 a chorus we can hear, if
 we but will

i loved you in my time, and you
 have loved me, too;
 our limits, each, like blankets
 keeping warm

the essences of all
 our fleeting memories,
 the shapeless pattern,
 looking for a form —

but in this golden autumn, see
 or hear these words:
 or drink them, if you ever
 need a fill —

that what you’ve given me
 has always been enough,
 and to you, i’ll be always

 holding


 still