your voice heavy with the fog of waking
whispered the sweetest nothings.
cool crisp mornings beneath an antique
quilt waiting for coffee to perk.
this silence like the late november air
grows colder each passing day.
from hearth to heaven and back again
embers from an autumn bonfire.
the need for space and a place to call
home beneath this setting sun.
maybe it was love or just a bit of play
before dried leaves began to fall.
