Anniversary (November 24)

The treasure of trees
golden mounds
on the green ground.

Urged by the morning sun
yellow leaves
coruscate in chilled air
radiant
with the afterglow of a summer
well lived.

But thirty-two years ago
the light died
when dark death’s hand
seized your struggling heart.

We buried you,
bright treasure,
under still
green grass.

The mud from your grave
clung to our shoes
as we wept our grief
in bright puffs of white breath
ascending like incense
into the good sky.

And thirty-two years later
I still choke on bitter sorrow.
Tears
still sting my eyes.

But looking through the bright window,
I see in November’s gold,
a faint reflection
of the enduring glory
that lights your
endless day.

Author's Note: In Memoriam,  Arthur Federle, 1910-1978