October.

Seven Octobers drift like leaves away,

Each one a whisper fading in the cold.

The truth I carry grows heavier each day,

Yet still I wait, though waiting makes me old.

I dream his footsteps cross the miles of night,

Past voices cruel that guard him from my name.

Through rain and train and wind’s relentless bite,

He’d find this northern room and end the blame.

My window frames the ghost of what could be,

A flicker where my hope still burns despite

The frost of lies that grows around the tree

Of all we were, still rooted out of sight.

And if he wakes, if love can still surprise,

October will be spring before my eyes.

..............

Poet's note:

This poem is in response to this challenge: