Annum
A litter of leaves
have budded and fallen
since we two last parted.
The Earth’s ellipse
has lassoed the sun
too slowly to be felt.
A class of fifth-graders
has fledged and flown
from the neighborhood school.
Four seasons of trends
have come in and gone out
with all due fanfare.
Twelve generations
of mayflies have lived
and died and been forgotten,
in the kitchen where
we once stood with our mother
and snuck licks of cookie batter,
on those rainy summer afternoons
we two never thought
would end.
But, of course, those years passed.
And so has this one,
without a word between us.