Solace | 慰

The autumn wind consoles the fallen leaves, blurred and wavering, again displaced.

When spring grows warm, the yellow has left you. My solace turns into soil, earthworms, humus.

Again and again I search for a soul once held dear.

—green, poetry, amnesia. I let the treetops utter a few muted, husky sounds, in memory of you and me, and the touch of growing old.