I park my truck before the trail into the woods.
I watch dampened leaves upon limbs,
Pale, sporadic, birch tree branches.
I mosey among tufts of dirt, umber-toned mud splatter,
Encircling the clearing where we first kissed,
On a wet rock with a spongy moss stain.
It rained. Time washed into the topsoil.
God spat Autumn across the cosmos
In an arched sliver of silver light.
Summer died in its own swelter, choking on a cork.
Spring sunk into a shawl, fallen to old age.
Winter buried Spring’s old ashes in a meadow.
It buried itself into a poem about death.
But life still falls in flakes.
Life is not the hills mounted by snow.
Life is always one night,
One car, one vase, one rose, one light,
One flake, dropping before a naked skull-moon,
Hanging in our kitchen window.
I am here again at the clearing.
Somehow you linger like Theban plague.
Somehow you’re alive in this absence.
Somehow I think I’ll hear your whisper,
Swaddled in gusts of passing wind.
Somehow, this is life my life now.
And all I ever need from it.

About the Author: Gregory Letellier is student of Literature at Emmanuel College in Boston. He has poems published or forthcoming in Emerge Literary Journal, Linden Avenue Review, and Clutching at Straws. Read more at