Fallen

The fallen leaves, this autumn, have been piled,
So that she can keep right on top of them;
And, if the heaps mean every leaf is filed,
Then such is life; the tidiness may stem
Wild thoughts of blowing breezes and the storm
That lies inside her chest - it stops her breath
To recollect how she was swept to form
The lesser half, before that summer death
Left her in modest skirts; her broom sweeps clean;
But every brush stroke leaves the paving stark;
As does the thought of all that might have been,
Had he not gone that day - he left his mark
Upon her shoulder blade, now her broom steers
The fallen leaves this autumn and her tears...