Our Own Time

The deep dark soil

Gradually turns to mud;

A gentle insistent patter

Right inside the cloud;

Dappled autumn hues

Of bark and leaves

Shades of browns

And intense fading greens;

And the mist-shrouded wood-smoke

Wafting lazily without a breeze;

A solitary bird whistles

As a lone car hisses by –

Magical, mystical,

Pleasingly mysterious:

It is. Quietly on its own

Existing as if in a dream;

Yet this is no dreamland.

I am here, I hear, I smell

I taste and see

This cold brown log upon which I write

These thoughts of you

Wishing that we

Could have shared this moment:

Close, speaking softly touching

Making love to you;

Here in this morning

Where we both can dream

Inside the comfort of this cloud,

Lost, together in our own time.