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.